


Restless Heart

by BookofLife



Series: I Found [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 'I only wish that I'd told you I loved you sooner', Arrow (TV 2012) Season 1, Dating, F/M, Gen, Moving On, Regressing, Rewrite, starts 1.09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 23:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 93,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20478884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookofLife/pseuds/BookofLife
Summary: Change one thing, change everything: Oliver manages to 'accidentally' invite Felicity Smoak - the one person he'd promised to never bring into his life that way - to the Christmas Party at the Queen Mansion.It's all her fault really.And it's not a date... or is it?Either way, his family, friends, enemies and ex-lovers have a few things to bring to the table.A different take to how these two could have started.





	1. One Small Change

**Author's Note:**

> Indulgence at its finest.  
Unusual for me but each chapter will be short. A one or two scene thing with possible multiple povs. It's just a bit of fun and honesty as I write for Indecent Proposal, True Face and Devil's Backbone.  
The title is a quote of John Parr's Restless Heart song. the lyrics are perfect .

“Felicity Smoak,” it was more smoke than voice - _does he have to say my name like that? It’s terribly distracting_ \- and when he looked up at her again where he sat on the opposite side of her desk, after taking back the arrow; she almost swallowed, “you’re remarkable.”

Oliver Queen was a _very_ attractive man.

It was a testament to her control that she was able to talk without stuttering. Babbling. Speaking nonsensical innuendos. _Blushing_. If it was just one sentence, she could manage it. “Thank you for remarking on it.” The smile on her face was not- _is not a come on_. A flirtation of any kind. She was kind of proud of herself.

He’d called her remarkable. _Oliver Queen_ had called her remarkable, and he’d _meant_ it. That was the real titillating piece. A man like him? What did he care if she was smart? _Why_ would he? _I’m pretty sure wifi was the last thing on his mind being shipwrecked. _Arrows might be. Arrows could keep a man alive, but he’d need a bow-

_And that’s not- we’re not going there._

_There_ was too enticing. The connections _there _were too easy to make and therefore had to be wrong- _but he’s practically handing me the information via internet access and those gorgeous blue eyes are not hiding that he’s testing me._

That he was, _is_, lying.

It should make her nervous; everything else on the planet did. But _he_ didn’t, not exactly.

Instead… he just smiled at her like she’d made him happy. Just like that first time in her office. It wasn’t a very big smile, but it made his eyes light up and his face relax.

_So pretty_. And so very out of her league.

But she wasn’t ready for him to leave when he stood up, so maybe that was why what happened next, did.

When, standing as he was - and it was impossible not to remember the way he’d been on his last visit; _‘Felicity, I do believe in magic’_, or the way he’d looked at her, like he was cluing her into something she couldn’t decipher, _he does that a lot _\- he paused just before turning, simply to say, “Merry Christmas,” in that amazingly husky voice of his and- _what is with that? He doesn’t need to be so soft._ Could he not speak in such a low register that she felt it south of the Equator, thank you very much?

Could he also not look so alone as he does it? Could he not look like a lost puppy? A hot, lost puppy? A hot, lost puppy who looked at her like intelligence was a turn on? A hot, lost puppy who looked at her like intelligence was a turn on and was keeping so many secrets, her mind would wander to the broadness of his shoulders and thighs and instead of thinking one incredibly enticing thing, the obvious thing - _I am not a monk_ \- she, once again, made a certain lethal connection that did not bode well for nondescript IT girls such as herself-

“Are you even celebrating Christmas?” Eyes closing tight when he blinked at the question, _crapadoodle_, she grasped for a handhold, _why did I ask that?_ “I mean,” _open your eyes_, “I can’t imagine that you celebrated a lot of Christmas’s on the island-” _oh holy frack_.

Stood very still as he watched her destroy herself, Oliver made zero moves to help her push the knife in deeper.

Or take it out.

Wincing, _this is why I don’t talk to people period_, eyes wide open behind her glasses, this time she did swallow. “Not that you need to be reminded.” Nodding- she was nodding like one of those demented bobble heads- _just put me out of my misery already_, she noted the amalgamation of emotions on his normally unreadable face and figured he’d never be coming back down to her cubby hole in the IT department. “I just…” after several seconds of staring up at him with the charisma of a lamp post, she blew out her remaining air with a puff of her lips. “I was curious.”

It was weak, quiet and _so_ not her place to be fracking curious-

“Why?” And his eyebrows where doing this _quizzical_ thing with that slight smile that told her he actually was curious about _her_ curiosity.

Mouth opening, closing- _he’s going to think you’re a fish if you don’t stop doing that_. She cleared her throat. “Um- no reason, just,” because it was obvious that there was a reason why she’d dare step out of her comfort zone and strike a conversation with the man, “wanted to know if you were okay.”

It wasn’t even a lie. When she thought about it, it probably _was_ the reason she’d asked.

And he couldn’t have looked more surprised.

_I shouldn’t have said anything_. She’d wigged him out. _I should have stuck to ‘I’m Jewish’ and let the man walk out through the door because now it’s DEATH in here-_

“O-oh.” Blink once for ‘okay’, blink twice for ‘uncomfortable’. And if he’d looked surprised before, his face was now a blank. “Ah.” He cleared his throat, _so awkward_. “I’m okay.”

It was as quiet, as _weak_, as her voice had been.

Her lips pressed together.

Eyes flickering from her face, to her desk and back again; his head turned towards the entrance, as if he was making to leave and she really couldn’t blame him- “Actually I, er…” looking down, elsewhere, he seemed to deliberate before continuing. “I’m holding a Christmas party.” On ‘party’ he was looking at her again. “At the mansion.”

He looked _so_ unconfident; she didn’t know what to do with it.

Still, flabbergasted that he’d told her at all, Felicity’s brows lifted; a nervous smile erupting. “That’s great.”

“I think it is.” He was still quiet, which was… odd. Not quiet, husky. Quiet, _unsure_. After the confidence he’d projected earlier, the 180 turn almost hurt to hear. To look at. “My dad used to hold them. There’d be decorations lining the stairs and the halls would be lit up. The mansion would be packed with people. With laughter.” That was a snapshot into the current emotional state of the Queen family right there. Recollection changed his voice, transforming it from ‘mysterious hot guy with a secret’ to ‘achingly attractive man who’d lost his father alone at sea’ and the slight glaze of his eyes – as if he were seeing his memories – just added to the longing there. “It would smell like Christmas.” He added, almost absently and she wondered what that smelt like. What Christmas smelt like in the Queen Family household opposed to a burnt Turkey in a tiny apartment in Vegas, where snow, Santa Claus and family dinners are myths-

“You miss him.” She hadn’t meant to say it, but often what she didn’t mean to say came tumbling out anyway. “Your dad.”

A dad that hadn’t left him and his mother alone for all the Christmas’s and birthdays he hadn’t bothered to attend, not that she knew a thing about the Queen patriarch.

It was subtle but effective, the way his eyes left his memories and hit hers. And remained.

_Uh oh._

The silence dragged out; her looking up at him, heart in her throat - wondering if she should just duct tape her mouth in future - and him, staring down at her, probably thinking she was the most audacious nobody he’d ever met and suddenly she couldn’t take it anymore. “And that is so not any of my business.” Head ducking down, _I can’t look at him_, fidgeting with various assortments on her desk, she smiled because smiling releases endorphins and she could at least pretend she was pathologically curious to a fault. “And definitely not what you came down here to hear me say-”

“Are you-” Daring to look at him, she peered up past her spectacles to find him watching her do just that. “Are you celebrating Christmas?”

_Um_… that was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “I-I’m Jewish.” Straightening, she righted her already correctly fitted glasses with her index finger.

It didn’t throw him so much as it made him loose that tiny, stunning spark of interest she’d seen in his face. “Right.”

“But,” she immediately threw out, as if she were afraid that he’d take it and go and she couldn’t explain why she wanted him to know this about her, “I do celebrate it. In my own way.” She amended, still nervous but seeing that he was ‘all ears’ helped. “I don’t host lavish parties,” she joked without joking but he seemed to appreciate it with the way the side of his mouth lifted, “but there are things that I do for the holiday.”

Things she’d only just realised that were more personal and revealing and _personal_ than she’d appreciated and couldn’t, wouldn’t share them with a man who’d come to her a handful of times with some very shifty requests for aid.

A man who looked like he might _actually_ be genuinely curious about those things. “With family?”

This was the reason. _This is why I’m not allowed to talk to rich, hot guys_. She said too much, revealed how depressingly sad she could be. “Ah,” eyes darting away and back, her lips popped on the _p_. “Nope.”

Slowly, like he was moving through water, Oliver Queen nodded.

She flushed. How boring could she get? Though not that boring given how he kept coming down there for her mental prowess but any moment now, he was going to leave the room and never come back. She bit down on her lip, _way to sink the mood_-

“Then you wouldn’t be interested in going… to the party. _My_ party.” He cleared his throat again and it was super nice that she wasn’t the only one in the room whose brain and mouth were uncooperative with each other; plus, it gave her time to work through the mallet to the head his words just magically produced. “Would you?”

_What did he just…_ “Y-your party?”

Fingers fiddling with the arrow, Oliver’s nod was fast coming. “Yes.”

“_Your_ Christmas party?”

His eyes side-lined. “What other party would I be referring to?”

“Right.” Blinking, the flush bloomed up her throat, to her cheeks. _Damn_. “Stupid question.”

Shifting on the spot, he looked like he was regretting his offer already. _Oh God_. “Unless it’s not your thing…”

“I do go to parties.” And she smiled the smile of the forever loser. “Just not used to being asked,” she gestured a hand to him; _by my bosses, boss’s son_, “by people like you.”

So much worse.

His brow quirked. “People like me?”

_I just insulted him. The son of Moira Queen, the hot guy who - because I’m clearly tripping - just asked me to his party and-_ she felt like she was back in college, blundering through a conversation with the hot jock who’d seen her legs and figured her quirkiness was worth the time needed to feel them up.

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” It rushed out of her because, yes; she was worried. He was trying to be nice and she was blowing it.

But he just… waited for her to finish. He didn’t interrupt, wasn’t trying to make her feel like a fool. He wanted to know what she meant.

Worrying her lower lip, she smiled an apology. _Time to eat crow_. “The son of my boss just asked me to his first real party in years.” When understanding touched him, it came out in a breathy noise that sounded almost like humour as her shoulder lifted and her eyes laughed at herself. “I’m a little nervous.”

Still a relative stranger to her, Oliver looked exactly as he should; uncomfortable but considerate. _Again, awkward_. “So am I.”

It was a humbling moment of honesty. “About the party?” _Or about asking me?_

“I need it go well.” The former. “I mean, it _will_ go well. I just…” He was having trouble articulating himself.

So, she lent a possibly unwelcome hand. “Your family’s been through a lot. As have you.” It felt like a secret, bringing up his… _trauma_. “It’s understandable that you’d want it to be a success.”

He just looked at her.

“I-I think it will be.” She tried. “From what I’ve heard, the Queen’s really know how to throw a shindig.”

It was oddly shy, the way he spoke. “It’s been a while.”

She lowered her voice. “So _modest_.” He laughed, head dipping down bashfully and the sound - the sight - made her smile. Made her honest. “You’re trying. I think that’s admirable.”

It hit her then; there was such a thing as being _too_ honest. They weren’t friends. This felt like she was reaching for something here. To the outside observer, it was just a compliment.

A compliment that seemed to throw him.

“…Thank you.”

Why did it feel like more?

While she sat - clueless - a soft blink from him was followed by him saying. “So, the party…”

Back to that. “Yes.”

He blinked again. “Yes?”

_Um_. “Yes?”

“…You’ll go?”

She had trouble speaking, _I fell into it_. “Y-yes.” What else could she say? No?

But he looked surprised again. “Right.”

She gulped. Nodded. “Mm hm.” _No more yeses._

For the very first time, Oliver didn’t look like the charmer he’d insisted on being in her company. “Okay.” Mouth closing, eyes sliding from her to anything but her and back again - rinse, repeat - he looked out of place. As if he wasn’t sure what he’d done, why he’d invited her. _So embarrassing_. “Good.”

“Great!”

Was it though?

He stepped back, making to finally leave her office and she felt her nerves get the better of her. _I take it back. I can’t go. I plan to be sick._ The sad truth was that she’d most likely be at work over Christmas, earning overtime in abundance for easy labour, but how else was she supposed to save money. And it wasn’t as if he really wanted her there; he asked as a courtesy, to be kind, to be-

“I er,” at the entrance/exit, Oliver idled there for a moment; still looking like he had no idea what was happening, “I’ll see you later?”

At. His. Christmas. Party.

Lips pressed together, his thumb and forefinger tapped against the doorframe as he watched her.

She followed suit, smile fixed on her face even as her nerves… her _slight_ pleasure at being asked, shone through. “Sure.”

Mouthing, “okay,” with a polite smile, he disappeared before she could add ‘_but I might not see you_’.

And that was that.

“Right.” _I have a… it’s not a date. It’s not._ It didn’t sound like one. _It was an invite_. Two people - two ‘sort-of’ friends - enjoying a night together- _with other people_. During Christmas. At the Queen Mansion.

The. Queen. Mansion.

Eyes comically wide, she gawked at the now empty seat by her desk. “What am I going to wear?”

She was an office girl; she didn’t own frocks, dresses or anything suitable for her boss’s mansion. She’d come to city with a couple of weeks’ worth of cheap office attire from Walmart and some prime samples form thrift stores - _don’t underestimate thrift stores; there were gems there_ \- that she’d made last until her first pay check. She was a sensible money earner; she didn’t spend what she didn’t need to, but her first three pay checks had been spent to the dime: a laptop, a down payment in rent and clothes. Afterwards… _what you see is what you get._

It wasn’t that she didn’t care for it; for shopping and couture and shoes, but she had to budget.

But this is an emergency.

She couldn’t go to the Queen Mansion dressed in her ‘I’m a Queen’ sweat suit, not that it would make a lick of difference to how they’d see her... and she didn’t want to.

For the first time in her life - _and probably the last, let’s face it_ \- she’d been given an _in_ into a different world and she didn’t want to waste this chance, for good or for evil. “Looks like I’m going shopping.”

Just once, she wanted to look how she felt inside. _I mean, I love my sweats_. but she also loved high heels. Tricky.

Taking a deep breath, she gave a little shrug and muttered. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Oliver could completely ignore her when she got there. _Been there, done that_.

They could bar her at the doors for being very obviously not a blue blood. _I’d just go home_.

She could say something disastrous and his mother could fire her. _That’s less good_.

Was this really a good idea?

_“My dad used to hold them. There’d be decorations lining the stairs and the halls would be lit up. The mansion would be packed with people. With laughter.”_

He’d looked so alone…

She could put up with anything for one night.


	2. Not a Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party, the host is late and Felicity dressed up for herself and only herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm updating mega-early! I realised I'll be too busy to update it tomorrow or Friday so today it is.  
Enjoy and REVIEW! Please?

It had been too close a call.

Fists clenched; Oliver traced a palm down one side of his tux. “I see the halls are decked.” The tense words were belied by a gentle, elegant piano cover of a Christmas hymn that he vaguely recognised.

He should recognise it. He’d designed the party to be an exact replica of the half dozen or so he’d remembered of the ones his father had thrown, using them as a template.

Celebrating the past.

Feeling constrained, Oliver surreptitiously checked the exits and entrances and saw with some relief that his family weren’t in the vicinity; they hadn’t noticed that he was almost an hour late to his own party. _All that matters right now is my family_.

Stood in the middle of the entrance hall to the mansion, John waited until he was close enough to speak without raising his voice. “You okay?”

Phantom heat from the explosion still seared down his bruised but otherwise undamaged back. “I’ll manage.” _Just_. Jaw taut, voice strained; Oliver breathed through it. “Is everyone having a good time?”

_One_ thing had to go right.

As always after a fail, John’s thoughts were focused on retreat and further recon. Not attending a Christmas party. “Are you sure you want to be doing this, man?” After an explosion had nearly killed him, he understood Dig’s reservations. _But John doesn’t understand my resolve_. “Maybe now is not the best time,” John said, as the driver-bodyguard scanned the area; watching as bodies floated from the lounge to the dining hall and back again, all carrying glasses of chardonnay, “for you to be Martha Stewarts elf.”

Teeth grit, Oliver lowered his voice as another partygoer - a woman who sent him a smile he didn’t have the capacity to return - slipped past them, leaning as close as he possibly could without attracting attention. “My family needs this party Diggle.” With a pointed look, he let that sink in before adding. “Which means I need it.”

That was when he saw her.

Behind John, looking like she was contentedly lost - he recognised her immediately - a certain blonde IT girl stepped out of the Lounge area from where he’d had the music set up; her head and eyes probing curiously down the opposing corridor before she began to wander down it.

She captured his attention completely.

“What?” John muttered, turning to look where Oliver’s eyes had fixed. “What is it?”

_Who_. “Felicity Smoak.” Voice still quiet, Oliver watched her slowly move past the drawing room; stopping here and there to inspect the pictures, the lights, the antiques and the general yuletide splendour with a look of wonder on her face that made the tightness in his chest lessen somewhat. Somehow. “I… I invited her.” And he’d almost forgotten that he had. “It was after she gave me the name of the manufacturer.” Clearing his throat, he frowned; bewildered without knowing why. “I wasn’t sure she’d come.”

“Wait,” Dig’s tone centred around the confusion Oliver could see furrowing his eyebrows in his peripheral, “the IT girl who helped us with the Reston Case? You asked her to your Christmas party?” The doubt - the incredulity - of the wisdom of this choice, was clear.

_Apparently, that’s exactly what I did_. “Yeah.”

And he still felt Dig’s eyes on him but his own were too shocked to leave her. “Why?”

That was the question. One he didn’t know the answer to.

_“Then you wouldn’t be interested in going… to the party. My party.” He cleared his throat. “Would you?”_

Why had he asked?

Seeing her there - _here_ \- seemed to bring it home in a way he hadn’t expected. Not in the least because… she looked different. Very different. Unexpectedly different.

She was wearing green. A dark green dress with gold overtones. See-through lace covered her arms in an unusual design that he couldn’t ascertain so far away but it was… suggestive. A departure from the pumps, knee length black skirts and basic shirts she wore at Queen Consolidated. She’d straightened her hair and it looked longer; half up at the front in intricate little knots that sparkled when she passed under a light – _did she put lights in her hair?_ Jewellery?

He could see her legs. A _lot_ more of them than before, framed beautifully by two-inch gold heels. She wasn’t wearing her glasses.

This was Felicity Smoak uncovered.

He stared.

She’d come because he’d asked her. She was the only one he’d asked who wasn’t on the party list.

Beside him, John made a sound. “It’s not a date… right?”

Shaking his head once, still softly bewildered; Oliver watched her leave his sight. “I- _no_. No, it’s not.” He breathed.

He had no idea.

* * *

It was fairy land.

Felicity allowed herself to be taken in by the opulence, the warmth; to _enjoy_ it. Just for one night. _I am in a dress I can’t afford, wearing heels I know make me stand out and I forgot to put on deodorant as I surround myself with people I don’t know_.

And, possibly, don’t wish to.

They’d let her in at the front doors, declaring that ‘Mr Queen had already made them aware of a plus on the list’.

“Enjoy this.” Having found her wanderlust pushed to the breaking point - the house was huge, the finery extravagant - she’d helplessly made her way down one hallway and into another. “You are one of QC’s finest employees. The IT department’s saving grace.” She could have gotten her supervisor fired alongside half of the department for the many times she’d had to pull their hides out of the fire. But she wasn’t _money_.

Out of place or no, it didn’t matter whether she belonged or not; she was there for Oliver. If someone asked, she could simply say; ‘Oliver invited me’.

Except no one had asked and Oliver Queen had yet to show up.

_This is one of those times isn’t it?_ When the guy invites a girl and doesn’t show? “Haven’t experienced many of those times myself.” She’d never been stood up on a date before, though the few she’d had, had been spectacularly painful. “It isn’t a date.” _No, it is not_; because if it were, she definitely would _not_ be talking to herself, complete with hand gestures and facial expressions, as she walked, alone, down one of the mansion’s quieter hallways. “Haven’t touched the buffet yet.” There was no way she was leaving without sampling the entrée. Though at a party such as this, ‘buffet’ was underscoring it. _Try ‘event’_. And though she’d been there for twenty minutes - she’d call it stylishly late, if the mild panic attack she’d had before arriving, would let her - she hadn’t touched the wine yet. “Should have taken a benzo.” Hand tracing her stomach, she moaned under her breath. “Stop it butterflies, because this is definitely _not_,” she exhaled, coming to a stop before an expensive looking portrait of - _and psychologists would have a field day with this one_ \- an exquisitely angsty sea storm that was roughly her size in height; unavoidable to passers-by, “a date.” A date involved setting a time and place to meet and she hadn’t dressed up to impress anyone but herself.

_“I, er,” at the entrance/exit, Oliver idled there for a moment; still looking like he had no idea what was happening, “I’ll see you there?”_

“Not a date.” Humming, her head tilted and she pulled a face; taking in the picture from another angle. “It’s like history, vanity and agony made love and had a baby.”

“Who made love?”

Eyes shutting, heat singed up her spine; making her jolt - hand shooting to her throat - and it felt like her heart had stopped. “_God_, Oliver.”

“I’m sorry.”

He sounded it too. Contrite.

Opening her eyes to peek at him, Oliver Queen looked exactly as he had in her office; hesitant yet curious. And wearing a tux. An honest-to-goodness tux, which, _of course_, looked so perfectly fitted to his body that she could trace the lines of muscle she’d glimpsed through the Henley he’d worn in her first meeting. _Yowza_.

She hadn’t heard him approach.

He’d _clearly_ heard her.

_Gulp_. Mortifying.

But he did look sorry. Lips pressed together, he stood just a few metres to her left; gaging her. Unfamiliarity. He didn’t know what the code was here.

_He’s not alone there_. Relief mixing in with a shot of nerves made her giggle, short but sweet. “You should wear a bell.” _Because obviously he’d learned how to be so quiet on the island, what with living all by himself-_

_Shut up brain._

A hesitant smile took away a little of his stiffness. “You… came.”

Her responding smile was quizzical. “_You_ sound surprised.”

“I am.” And he looked so confused by that. _That’s not good, is that not good?_ “Surprised.”

_Why?_ “I said I would.” She almost stumbled over her words.

He nodded, unreadable. “You did.”

“And,” she turned slightly, the butterflies in her stomach whirring as she stepped closer, feeling it tug when his eyes briefly flickered to her dress, “you did ask.” And was regretting it?

Searching her face, he spoke softly. “I did.”

He was regretting it.

Pulling in her lower lip, she felt her fingers start to fidget and knew that no amount of control could make them stop now. _This was a bad idea_. “Do you want me to go?” She hedged, her nerves seeking security as she watched him watch her: the guy who’d most likely invited her on a sympathetic whim. _Message received and understood_. “I’ll go-”

“No.” Hands raised palm up, he lowered them as he’d lifted them; taking one small step in her direction. Just as she had. “It’s… it’s okay.”

Searching his face, she released her lip. “Are you sure?” Because he sounded so _unsure_.

Taking her in - eyes flitting to her hair this time, to her delicate earrings, _a gift from my Bubbe_ \- he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Yeah.” Firmer this time, as if maybe it really was fine. “Absolutely yes.” Eyes holding hers, it took all four syllables of _absolutely_ for this new and improved smile to blossom on his face.

Not a lie or a mask. He just looked surprised at himself. At her. At… this.

“And for the sake of broken records everywhere,” she muttered, making the surprised smile bloom into surprised, breathy laughter, _score_, “are you _sure_ that you’re sure?”

He nodded. “I am.”

_Still not a date, but I’ll take it_. Relief exhaled out of her, making her cheeks poof. “Oh good.” She gestured down at herself. “Not that this was hard.” She joked, then flinched; immediately wishing she could take it back.

It had taken her hours. Her nerves had made every easy decision a hard one. _He doesn’t need to know that_.

And why take it back when he looked like he’d found her attempt at humour a success. “You look…” That coarse quality had returned to his voice and it made her look at him. _Really_ look at him.

Watch him as he took the time – _this_ time – to traverse her attire and what she’d added to it; he pictured the heels and the way they amplified her calves, the ample and startling amount of thigh she was showing to contrast her covered arms; all of it.

He took her in.

_Gosh_. She hadn’t been looked at so hard in so long, she’d forgotten what it felt like. To be _looked_ at and _appreciated_. Even if it was short lived.

The fact that it was OLIVER looking at her wasn’t something she could process. _This isn’t a date, so it doesn’t count._

Shaking his head as if to clear the cobwebs, he came up empty. As if there wasn’t a word for her, and she was sure he was just being kind. He probably just didn’t know what to say, as out of his depth as he’d been before.

It was… endearing. _Oliver. Endearing. Who knew?_

A shy smile quieted her voice, fingers interlocking in front of her. “Thank you.”

Stepping aside, he gestured back where she came. “Shall we? Unless there was something you were looking for?”

_What, like a toilet?_ “I, ah…” her eyes flickered back to the painting, helpless against the painful irony of having so many reminders of ship being wrecked at sea in a house torn apart by one. “Nope.”

But his eyes travelled to it with hers and-

“I was just…” _Just what?_ “Surprised.” _Wrong word_. “Not that it’s surprising,” she fought on, swallowing and blinking furiously at herself as he silently took in the surreally detailed depiction mounted on the wall, “that there’d be so many pictures of the ocean… or models of ships in your home…”

Tripping on a breath, she didn’t add, _‘since you were shipwrecked and all’._

Fail.

Taking a shaky inhale - heart sinking - she was sure this was the end of the road. No one wanted to dredge up personal trauma during a party, certainly not the man of the hour and especially not because of her-

“They were my father’s.”

Not breathing, Felicity stared at him.

“The pictures and the models. He _loved_ boats.” If she wanted to, she could have passed it off as one great big nothing, his voice. The undertone. The wealth of feeling he had for the father who hadn’t returned with him. “He was enamoured with all modes of transportation. Taught me how to fly a plane.” And the affection there - the pride - was unmistakable. “But he loved boats.” The area around them felt hushed, his words more whisper than sound as he continued to take in the picture, probably without really seeing it all. “He loved the ocean.”

_How horrible, for what you love to take you from _who_ you love. _Sounding small, it just came out on the end of his lonely words. “And you.” _He loved you_.

Blinking once at the picture, his eyes moved to her; seeing her side-on. Surprised at her once again for some reason… for saying that his father had _loved_ him.

Tentative, she smiled. “Merry Christmas Oliver.”

Searching her face, he allowed himself a moment; as if pondering the unusualness that was her wishing him a Merry Christmas, possibly after five years of no Christmases. “Merry Christmas Felicity.”

If she wasn’t mistaken, he looked like he enjoyed the sound of that. The Merry Christmas. Her name following it. The fact that he’d been wished a _merry,_ festive time. The hope that he might just have a very joyous holiday.

Her smile grew. She couldn’t help it.

And he couldn’t seem to help to _look_ at it. “Would you like the tour?”

* * *

It didn’t take long.

_Two_ lounges, a dining hall, parlour, library, an office, kitchen and conservatory later and Oliver was redirecting them towards the drawing room. They’d stuck to the ground floor because the _second_ floor had the bedrooms and- _not the bedrooms, because this isn’t a date. _

No kissing. No bedrooms. No awkwardness. _No problem._

“So, what do you think?” He taken to doing that; asking her questions she didn’t think she could or had the right to answer, but maybe it was easier for him. Asking someone new instead of someone who’d known him for many years.

“Ah, of the house?”

“The party.”

_Oh_. “Not that I know a thing about how to throw successful soirées, but,” and for some reason it made total sense to her to raise her thumbs at him, _goof_, “you get an A-Star from me.” _Mostly_.

“Thank you.” He wasn’t suffused with pleasure, but his voice was grateful.

His _body_ however…

“But you seem-” She stopped because he was looking at her again and it was the reminder that she was about to say _another_ something that could potentially ruin his night. “Never mind. It’s nothing. It-”

“Felicity.” And how he could make her name sound so lovely she didn’t know, but she was sure he didn’t realise it. “Please.”

He was just _looking_ at her. Asking her to say what was on her mind. To be honest. It seemed important to him.

She swallowed, gaze darting down to their shoes as they walked back towards the music and cheery voices. “You seem a little tense.” On tense, her own stomach churned; eyes darting to the way his shiny shoe-covered feet immediately slowed in their steps. “And forgive me for saying, but this party doesn’t really seem like,” she mulled over the correct word to use, “well, like _you_. Like your thing.”

He was quiet for a few seconds.

“It’s for my family.” The party. “And… I have a lot on my mind.”

“No doubt.” She muttered. _Acclimating, creating a new business- _

“What does ‘my kind of thing’ look like to you?”

_Oh, foot in mouth_. Her head shot back up, eyes flying to his face. “I-I didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay. I’m interested.” And he looked like he really was. Maybe if he hadn’t asked her to come to his party, he wouldn’t have been; but he _had_ asked, so he was taking it on board. “I haven’t thought about how _I’d_ spend Christmas past the fact that I know my _family_ hasn’t celebrated it since… not in five years.” She figured that she could listen to him speak for a long time, which was ironic given how she was the one who usually rambled, but it was his eyes that took her in. There was something there; like he was walking with a broken leg but was covering the pain with a veil of interest. _What’s he trying to take his mind away from?_ “It doesn’t feel the way it used to.”

“Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“Is it any wonder?”

He didn’t respond.

They took a few more steps before she decided, _screw it._ “It’s been, what? Twelve weeks? You haven’t had a lot of time to see how you’ve changed. Maybe you don’t want to.” _Careful_, but this wasn’t a date. It wasn’t insensitive to point out a kindness; it just meant that Oliver might never want to ‘invite’ her to another party. Or wherever. “Which means, you’re doing this to try to give your family a little piece of what you feel you took away from them.” _When you died_.

How ridiculous.

How awfully sad.

Revealing of the man to her right. By now, they’d reached the drawing room with the excellently decorated Christmas tree and she wasn’t even trying to be furtive. She was flat-out watching his face as her words registered; as he slowed, as he didn’t look at her when they came to a stop in front of a row of partially empty bottles containing every kind of alcohol the rich and shameless chose to drink, as his gaze dropped to the lush carpet.

As the fingers on his left hand twitched before rubbing together, lips pressing together. Insecure.

Jackpot. _Sometimes, I hate being right_.

Being right meant being alone. Rinse, repeat. _Been there, still there._

So she waited as he regrouped, taking in their surroundings - the people laughing together just a few feet from them, people gravitating towards the room where a photographer clicked away for couples, siblings, friends - whilst he breathed out… then reached around her for one of the bottles just a little north of her arm.

His aftershave didn’t tickle so much as caress her olfactory senses. _Oh wow. _“You disagree?” He said - murmured, and she figured he didn’t want to be overheard talking to the one person not on the party list - as he began to pour something syrupy red and sweet smelling into two glossy wine glasses; it was almost hypnotic. “You don’t think this was a good idea?”

_Dangerous territory_. His tone was too calm. “I think this was a _great_ idea.” She told him; her gaze pulled from the glasses to his face as he concentrated on the pouring. “Remember?” Her thumbs lifted; hands pulled to her chest as she did so. “_A-Star_.”

“Mm hm.” Passing her a glass, he faced her; met her eyes. Waiting.

_You’re trying too hard to be something you’re not for the people you love_. “I think… at the end of the day, I think that your family are just glad that you’re home. _Alive_ and home.” The party wasn’t important: he was. “Even if you came home alone.”

_And not with your dad_, she added mentally; it was unnecessary to point out the painful obviousness of the whole reason why Oliver had set up this party in the first place.

He just missed _dad_.

Survivor’s guilt was a mark on his skin, an echo of grief rippling through him at her words when he didn’t respond; choosing instead to stare down at his own drink and it probably felt like a good idea, to drink and be merry and ignore the tiny, bespectacled IT girl in front of him…

But then she caught sight if the rest of the Queen’s on the other side of the drawing room: his mother, Walter Steele and, _I think that’s Thea Queen_…

They all looked miserable.

_uh oh_. She couldn’t tell if it was deep unhappiness with who they were standing near, which was each other - _oh god_ \- or if something had happened just now to make them look that way. All she knew was that his sister was glaring at the holly and ivory on the fire surrounding like it had done her an injustice and Moira Queen and her husband were stood next to each other but with several inches of space visible between them. No one was smiling.

Her own social ineptness was suddenly a moot point. “Oliver, promise me something.” And with the way she stepped inwards to him, so that he couldn’t _not_ look into her face made the flutter of a frown worm out the pensiveness she’d accidentally put in his expression. “No matter what happens tonight,” she kept quiet, “promise me that you’ll remember one thing.”

Both eyes looked to and from hers, a little on edge, careful and raw from her comment. _Oops_. “What?”

Naked without her glasses, she was aware how much she could show with her eyes uncovered. “That it isn’t your fault.” Whatever happens, it wasn’t on him.

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

Instead of responding, she merely signalled for him to turn; worrying her lips, glass of wine clasped between the fingers of both her hands, watching him as he did. As he caught sight of his family.

As his mother caught sight of him in return. “Oliver.” Somehow her voice carried over to them, making Oliver twist to her too. “There you are.” _Must be the_ _opulence_.

Having no choice but to join them, Oliver sent Felicity a look over his shoulder as he placed his untouched drink back on its counter. “I’ll just be a minute.”

She wanted to laugh at his expression; he looked torn between uncertainty at whether he actually wanted to return to her at all and confusion at her sudden apprehension… which meant he’d return to her anyway, because he was a gentleman. “Take your time.”

Lips pressing together, he nodded once before walking away.

Five steps in and he sent her another glance, this one just as confused as the last but also curious. _At least that’s one thing I can say about me._ She was odd enough for a backward glance. She’d never be ‘right’ enough for a forward one. To find someone already looking at her as she enters a room.

Instead, she sipped her wine… and melted. _Oh, come to mama_. This was why she came. _Yum_._ Mine_. She eyed the bottle, _might have to ‘borrow’ some more before I leave_, which could be any moment. _Let’s face it._

Since Oliver standing in front of her had kept her covered, no one had seen her with the Queen heir and now she had a bird’s eye view of him as he reached his mother - who wasn’t smiling - who’s cheek he immediately kissed. “You guys look great.”

Stiff backed, all three of them nodded with flat half-smiles. _Oh boy_.

“Let’s get a holiday photo.” And maybe this wasn’t the best time, but she’d seen Oliver’s eyes flicker from one family member to the next, so maybe he’d seen it too. Maybe he thought the reminder of ‘family’ would make them feel better.

She winced. _You have a lot to learn_, she thought as she watched his mother mutter something to him back. Not every family enjoyed the holidays together. And people change. Whatever happened, it wouldn’t be Oliver’s fault.

But it was his party. If his behaviour so far was anything to go off, he’d make it his fault.

A camera flashed once, twice before nodding at Oliver who smiled congenially back. _Fake_-

“Felicity?”

She choked on her second sip of wine, trying not to splutter - because red spittle isn’t attractive - as she swallowed before blinking at her boss. _Frack_. “Mr Steel!”

Every person in the room glanced towards her and she wanted to hide. Or walk out. It was like Where’s Waldo, except ‘Where’s Felicity’ was much less satisfying and didn’t pack quite the same-

“I didn’t know you were coming to the party.” Taken aback - was it a British thing that made his voice carry so clearly too or was it a social status thing like his wife - and he looked like he really was, _get in line_, she read his mind. Invited. He hadn’t known she’d been _invited_, which meant this was probably an unwelcome development-

“She’s ah…” Oliver, looking like he wasn’t sure what was happening, but was smiling slightly - like he was enjoying the phenomenon - cleared his throat. “She’s with me Walter.” He gestured for her to come over, come closer. “I invited her.”

‘And I’m not sure why’, could have been added to that; not that awkwardness was any more needed to this moment in time because you could have heard a pin drop.

Brows raised; Walter’s expression blanked. “Oh.”

Oh.

_Ack_. This was painful. _Again_.

“Well,” Walter re-started as she closed in on the tight-knit group, and it was so much worse up close - she held onto her glass like it was a buoy - but it was better than carrying a conversation from across the literally crowded room, “it’s a pleasure to see you. _Again_.”

Head turning, Oliver blinked softly at him. Once.

For some reason, the fact that it was once made her stomach tighten and a recurring mantra in her head just wouldn’t shut the hell up- _the list, THE LIST_-

“Likewise, Mr Steel.” Avoiding how Oliver was looking at them both - how Moira Queen was giving her the ‘once over’ with an unblinking stare, _yikes_ \- she managed a real smile because, whilst she’d rather it not be here, she didn’t think there’d ever been a moment where she hadn’t found Walter’s company pleasant. Even if sweat was starting to gather, like dew, under her arm pits. Deodorant. _Why didn’t I bring deodorant?_ “Merry Christmas, sir.”

And she liked to think the warmth in his own was genuine too. “Merry Christmas.”

“You know each other?” Curiosity on Oliver didn’t feel quite so innocent as it did on Walter.

Looking at her ‘not-date’, her mouth opened, “Well,” faltered, “ah,” then closed. Swell.

Like mother like daughter, Thea Queen looked at her the same way a scientist would a rat they were about to dissect. Apathetic but not bored. _Gulp_.

She sent her boss a helpless glance.

“I asked for her assistance in something work related.” He smoothly slid in - _thank god_ \- taking the helm and completely missing the way his wife was observing him. _I’m going to throw up_. “It isn’t finished yet, but I’m impressed with her work so far.”

The compliment warmed her in a way the wine hadn’t and though her smile was small and shaky, it told him she was grateful.

“So,” her eyes shot to Oliver, to the way his gaze was leaving Walter and moving to her in question, “that’s the reason for all those late nights at the compnay?”

All the innuendos in the world took space in her head and, wide eyed, she gaped at him because he _couldn’t_ know how bad that sounded and judging by the sincere interest and absolute lack of cunning in his tone and expression, he did not and thank god because, _ew_.

His sister however-

“Say what?” And no, she did not look happy at the insinuation of her stepdad and the office girl getting up to bad deeds during the night.

But the light dawned ten seconds too late. “That’s not what I meant.” Oliver tried to laugh it off. “I was just…”

“H-he was just saying,” Felicity took over for some god awful reason; _seriously someone needs to stop me_, “that I do my best work in the dark-” Eyes shut tight, mouth closed, wine glass very secure; Felicity felt like dying.

In front of his mother_. I said that in front of his_ _mother_.

She heard Walter clear his throat and wanted to cry.

“Well, I think that’s our cue to leave.” She heard Moira say, as if she dealt with imbeciles every day of the week ending in Y. “You and I should talk alone.”

For a heart stopping moment, Felicity thought she was talking to her and her eyes flew open, heart in her mouth-

Oliver was staring at her. Gawking. Eyes comically wide, he was a half second from either laughing his ass off or walking away from her along with Mr Steel - who sent her a close lipped look that said, ‘_next time, maybe not tell my wife about the after hour conversations between us because of a list of names I found in our bedroom_’ - and his mother who was already well out of sight.

Lifting her glass to her lips, she inhaled the remaining wine. If it were possible, Oliver’s brows arched higher, though his eyes reduced to their normal size.

“You should throw this one back, Ollie.” Thea muttered to her brother on the end of a long-suffering sigh as she passed, her gorgeous locks somehow keeping strictly to her head and not bouncing away with each step. “At least the model was prettier.”

_Ow._

If it were possible, _this_ silence was so much worse than anything else; especially when Oliver exhaled. Uncomfortable.

“I’m really sorry.”

He blinked back to her. “What?”

Fingers fidgeting around the glass stem, Felicity pulled a face. “When I get nervous, I babble.”

“I noticed that.” Deep voiced, it didn’t sound like a criticism. “You get nervous a lot.”

“And you press your lips together a lot.” She titled her head, watching as his easy-going expression stilled. “Sort of like you’re trying not to say something. _Or_ you’re keeping a really big secret.”

Looking her in the eye, Oliver’s gaze tapered. “Really?”

“Yup.”

The blue in his eyes, deepened. “Hmm.”

It settled on her then; that same feeling she’d felt in her office with him. And before, when they’d walked. Something in the distance between them, unearthed. New. Different. Touched instead of orbited at a distance. Acknowledged in her diaphragm before it climbed inside her chest and settled.

Chemistry.

It was a huge surprise but slight. Possibly transient. Nothing _really_ to write home about.

Enough to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. To make her have to take a breath.

To make _him_ have to let one _out_. “I… I’m sorry.” Enough to lower his tone, despite the softness of his voice. “For what Thea said.”

“After _that_ verbal blunder?” Pointing to herself, “is it any wonder?” She laughed at herself, hoping to make him feel at ease. He rewarded her with that small smile and - _aha!_ \- he pressed his lips together again. “What aren’t you saying now?”

His lips _un_-pressed at speed.

“Ollie?”

The voice came from the side-

“Tommy.” Oliver breathed, “Laurel.” Eyes darting between the pair - and quite a pair they were; the man, tall and boyishly handsome and the woman, stunning and elegant with long, brown hair that accentuated the red dress fitting her like a glove - before shooting to Felicity. He cleared his throat. “I’m so glad you both made it.”

Was he though? _I mean, caterpillars show more excitement crawling across the ground, but what do I know_. Truly, she didn’t know them, but she could guess a lot by the way they were standing. By how they were looking at Oliver, as if they were waiting for him to object to something…

“Merry Christmas.” Smiling, Oliver hugged ‘Tommy’ before pulling back and then leaning forwards to sorta-_kinda_ kiss ‘Laurel’s’ cheek. _Just when I thought level of awkward couldn’t rise higher_. “Merry Christmas.”

‘Laurel’s’ eyes followed Oliver as he stepped back. As he stepped back _and_ as he gestured to Felicity whose heart thudded in warning, _what is he_-

“This is Felicity.” He started, blue eyes taking _way_ too much pleasure out of watching her swallow at him. “She’s…” he licked his lips, before glancing at the two of them. “She’s my friend.”

And that sounded strangely good. Like, _really good_. If the relaxed look on his face was anything to go by, it had felt good to say too.

But his real friends? ‘Tommy’ lost some of his hesitance with a charming smile that somehow increased the level of boyishness on his handsome face. “Hi there.”

And ‘Laurel?’ “Hi.” Polite smile set, discomfort featured in every bone of her body… _oh_.

They’d been waiting for Oliver to object to them arriving as a couple. _Intuition is a girls’ best friend_. This effortlessly attractive, leggy brunette was clearly one of Oliver Queen’s ex-girlfriends and once friend. Referring to Felicity as a friend suddenly felt much less than it sounded.

“I’ll give you guys some privacy.” She offered, stepping out of a lukewarm spotlight and walking towards the exit, aiming for the overly stocked bar that she knew existed somewhere.

Further proof that this wasn’t a date? Oliver didn’t call her back, which she honestly hadn’t expected.

“So how long do you guys think it’ll be until this isn’t so weird?” She heard Tommy say as she left the area. “You know, the three of us?”

The three of us.

On the way out, she passed John Diggle and found herself pausing. “You’re a brave man.”

“Bar’s that way.” He muttered, pointing with a flick of his finger as he pasted a smile on for the roving throng. “It’s on him.”

Her brows lifted, hopefully. “Food?”

His lips twitched. “Yup.”

“_Yes_.”

And if she saw Thea Queen flying up the stairs with a boy her age, carrying what looked like a bouquet of flowers and whispering like idiots towards what Felicity cold only guess was a bedroom, she ignored it.

_So not my business._


	3. No Pain, No Gain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, visiting a billionaire playboy in the hospital after visiting hours, after he abandoned his own party, isn't the strangest thing Felicity has ever done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you watch every Olicity scene in S1, instilling trust is a major theme between them; something absent in Oliver's other relationships. This chapter marks a change in perspective for Oliver. A small one, because what is friendship to him really? And who is Felicity Smoak?

_“Something in your eyes just told me that this nightmare would end.” _**Restless Heart lyrics, John Parr**.

_“It was good of you to call, Felicity.”_

It had taken _everything_ she’d had to resist calling sooner. “I’m glad Oliver’s going to be fine, sir.” They were words she felt to her core - _relief is a major feeling right now _\- but she’d somehow managed to remain continuously collected whilst speaking to her boss on the phone. _Fist pump_.

No one needed to know that she’d had a very mild anxiety attack - _a blip on the radar, I swear; though_ _attack really is the operative word_ \- take her completely by surprise when she’d heard the words ‘mum, Ollie’s been in an accident?’

She’d managed to close his bedroom door before they’d seen her - having gone looking for him - frozen against one of his walls and absently taking in a room that didn’t reflect its owner, processing.

_“This is Felicity.” He started, blue eyes taking way too much pleasure out of watching her swallow at him. “She’s…” he licked his lips, before glancing at the two of them. “She’s my friend.”_

He’d been in an accident.

_“Yes,” _Walter’s voice brought her back,_ “he’s already on the mend.” _

_Well_, she worried her lip,_ not entirely accurate_. Not wishful thinking either, but he wouldn’t exactly be skipping out the door in the morning.

It was something she knew because she’d hacked Starling General’s very poorly secured database - _bad Felicity, very bad_ \- after she’d slipped into ICU, feigning visiting someone who’s name she’d pilfered from the system, sleeping on an alternate floor, to use on a harassed looking secretary who wouldn’t remember her face tomorrow. _It’s so close to manipulation and yet, so far, _which meant she could sleep tonight without feeling guilty. _Still, the laws broken in my life are sure climbing ever higher, yay_. Did it make it worse that she didn’t regret it? The hacking or the near manipulation? _Does that make me a bad girl? Not _that_ kind of ‘bad girl’, but definitely more… bad?_ After they’d taken Oliver out of ICU, she’d found his private room. _I’m not a stalker_. But common courtesy at the very least demanded she care, and her own heart niggled at her to find out a little more, which was how she knew that him being ‘already on the mend’ was a gross exaggeration-

_“Felicity, I’m stepping into an elevator, so I’ll probably lose you.”_

Jolting back to reality, her nose crinkled. “That’s okay.” She replied as if she _wasn’t_ standing - hiding - inside one of the hospital staff’s locker rooms that smelled like sweat, hope, and bleach - ergo, the nose crinkle - wearing her tan coat, discretely covering the green and gold dress she’d dared wear to a party at the Queen Mansion- _still doesn’t feel totally real,_ as she waited on pins for Oliver’s family to vacate the area so that she could… could…

So that she could… what?

_Say hi?_ Eye roll. _Or show up inappropriately to his hospital room like Glen Close in Fatal Attraction?_ _Stand there like a bean in front of the island returnee after his motorcycle accident, because he’d decided that skipping out on his own party and taking a joy ride was preferable to hanging out with his loved ones._

So much good right there.

What had happened after she’d left?

Privacy - she’d thought he’d wanted some alone time with his close friends, so she’d given him space during which she’d _gorged_ on the trays of perfectly situated food and decided - as her cheeks had puffed with the tiny pieces of indulgent perfection - that she was very glad she’d come to a party where the food wasn’t simply delectable but _free_ and where the type of expensive wine she could never hope to afford, flowed in abundance.

_Probably doesn’t make me a contender for ‘best date ever’._

But for Oliver to leave… Oliver, who’d made it clear the party was for his family. Oliver, who’d only just arrived. Oliver, who was even more a mystery now than he’d been before and couldn’t afford to be because- _I’m me, hello_.

Mysteries needed to be solved and if Oliver did anything, it was to provoke questions without answers-

_“I’ll call you back in ten minutes,” _pulling her back again, _shouldn’t have had that second glass_, Walter voice sounded brisk with purpose, “_there’s been a development with the list.”_

“O-oh?” Blinking, Felicity felt a little turned about. “Development, sir?”

_“I’ll explain more when I’m at my car.”_

See? Mystery. She was in its thrall. “Yes, sir.”

Ending the call and pocketing her phone, she leaned forwards - held her breath for some reason - and peered out of the inch-wide gap she’d made at the door. No Imposing Moira Queen, no flawless Thea Queen, no authoritative John Diggle, no nurses or doctors…

The coast was clear.

“It’s now or never.” She whispered. _I say never_. But her fingers were already inching the door further open. “_Ng_, what am I doing?”

Teeth grazing her lower lip, she tiptoed out of the locker room and down the hall; heart racing, palms sweaty- _this is kind of fun- IS THAT A SECURITY GUARD? EEP- Oh… no it’s not. it’s just… well, I hope it’s not a rat at the very least_._ Hospitals definitely should NOT have rats in them, though I think it might be cute - and all kinds of unhygienic - for a puppy to come skidding along in here and-_

“Felicity Smoak?”

“_No_-” She forced her mouth shut. Considering the involuntary response wasn’t anywhere close to the most embarrassing thing she’d said this evening; she’d let it slide.

Shoulders hunched, back stiff with shock, she peered left towards the man walking towards her, wearing a frown of interest instead of a marred furrow of deep concern for her mental health. _He can stay_. “Mr Diggle.”

“Call me John.” _He can stay _and_ he can eat my portion from the buffet_. “It’s late.” Fixing her with a stare, he straightened down his suit sleves at the cuffs - she had a feeling it was a habit rather than a requirement - before a playful tint turned his eyes from probing to soft chocolate shrewdness. “And I don’t think you’re here to see me.”

It was a literal physical sensation, the way her cheeks pinked. “That obvious?”

“No.” His was just one level above a murmur; as if he didn’t want to bring anyone running so she figured she should follow suit. “But you’re a very nice girl.” _And that meant…?_ “And slipping into a hospital wing after visiting hours to see if Oliver’s okay,” she pressed her lips together, but he only smiled at her, “is the kind of thing a nice girl like _you_ would do.” Unsure what he actually meant by that and _very_ sure he was just choosing to be kind instead of the imposing shield the Queen matriarch had hired him to be, she peered up at John Diggle with a squinty-eyed glance and it seemed to tickle him as he pointed to the closest door to them. “He’s in there.”

Eyes following his hand, she breathed out. “I know.” Then she backtracked, fast; eyes flying back to the bodyguard. “I mean, I…”

One brow arched, he just looked at her with that slight smile.

“Right.” Realising she’d been had - _they invited me to hack into a total stranger’s not too long along ago, the jig is up and… he doesn’t seem to mind, that’s good, right_ \- a desire to hide herself made her smile more self-conscious in nature than the meaningful one she’d intended.

He seemed to understand. “I’ll wait out here.” And he stepped back to lean against the wall to the side of the door.

_Don’t freak out_. “Isn’t he,” and, feeling a draft, her hands came up to check her coat was closed, “asleep though?”

There was that enigmatic glance again. “Go find out.” The muscles in his cheek fluttered. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

_Okay…_

It wasn’t until she was inside the room that she allowed herself to feel better. To feel relief. To breathe. And it wasn’t because of any previous or current infatuation; yes, he was obscenely good looking. _Does he even have to glance at a mirror in the morning?_ He’d made it clear in the four or five times since his initial visit, that he valued her for her mind; but that in itself was of great value to her. No man - not even Cooper - had ever _just_ valued her for her mind.

It made him special.

_Even if he’s determined not to see it_, she thought to herself as she rounded around the hospital bed and took in the sight of him sleeping there. He’d always seemed so… preternatural before. _Not like a vampire or anything; I’m not that ridiculous_. But he’d managed to catch her by surprise each and every time he’d showed up at her office, wearing that same smile he’d given birth too that first moment she’d caught in a lie.

_There was just something about him_. And every time since. An energy maybe. A sadness too. A pervasive feeling that there was so much more than meets the eye with the man lying before her on that bed.

_He looks… okay. _She hovered at his feet. _For someone who’d skidding off his motorcycle that is._

There was some light bruising on his right cheek and a scrape on his forehead. The rest looked to be internal and, if a peek at his diagnostic chart could reveal anything…_ he was pierced by something?_

Just what kind of accident had he been in?

And… it was none of her business.

_Alright, just see if he’s awake_. “Mr Queen?” Fingers interlocked and fidgeting - sleeves falling just over her wrists - she kept her voice low, the bare minimum. “Oliver?”

He didn’t so much as twitch.

_So, he is asleep_. “You gave us quite a scare.” Stepping closer, as quietly as she could, Felicity spoke gently. “But it seems like,” and when she reached his thighs, she peered at his resting face; the way his hair could soften the expression there, “you’re not doing too badly.” Even asleep, he looked a little on edge. “Even with a pneumothorax, a concussion and broken ribs; you still look good.” _Hot, he looked hot. I like scruff on a man; this is brand new information_.

She found herself smiling at him.

_Until_, that is, he opened his eyes so fluidly, that it took her a moment to process that something had changed and when it did, she froze; blinking once, hard enough for the lid of her eyes closing to actually make a sound.

“I still look good?” A little doped up on the good drugs made his already masculine voice, that much huskier and it wasn’t helping her sudden urge to stroke her fingers through his hair-

_Wait._ He’d been awake the whole time.

_Oh, dear God._ “N-no.” She stuttered, hands clasping beneath her chin. “That’s…” swallow, breathe, “that’s not what I meant.”

“So,” and the way he had to take a breath told her that the pain was still substantial, “I _don’t_ look good?”

Tired blue eyes laughed at her, but his pupils were so large, and he looked so pooped, it made the whole thing sweet instead of obnoxious.

Withholding an eye roll, it was impossible to make her tone flat or expression frank. “Rude.”

But it made him laugh so, mission accompli-

“Sorry!” She whispered as he winced, pulling a sympathetic expression as she moved close enough for her hip to be touching the metal rim on his bed. “_Sorry_.”

Eyes closing, head leaning as far back into the pillows as he could allow, he sighed. “It’s okay, I’ve had worse.”

_Uh_, “…Worse than broken ribs, concussions and being pierced by something sharp and pointy?”

Eyes opening, his face was impassive; he looked at the ceiling. _Slip of the tongue?_

She’d let it go, this time. “I ah,” she gave a lady-like cough and looking away from his eyes when they slid cautiously to her; _his pupils really are large_, “I just wanted to see if you were okay. Your bodyguard,” she gestured with both hands - seeing as how they were still clasped together - towards the closed door, “let me in. Hope you don’t mind.”

And he didn’t quite know what to do with that, but soft surprised coating his face; making it look so touchable, she wondered how anyone didn’t find themselves staring at him. “It’s fine.”

His throat moved.

“Do you need water?”

Licking his lips, he opened his mouth to respond but she was already there; reaching for the plastic cup set to the side of his bed and passing to him; his arms were working just fine. “…Thanks.”

She watched him drink, wondering why every single time she did something for him or complimented him, he looked surreally surprised with her. “Don’t mention it.”

When he spoke again, he looked at the cup instead of her. “You were wrong, by the way.”

Her eyes side-lined. “I… huh?”

“You said that whatever happens tonight, it wouldn’t be my fault.” _Then_ he looked at her, it was abruptly open. “You were wrong.”

Her head titled. “What happened?”

“The party I threw, no one wanted it.” Settling in, he handed the cup back to her when she silently gestured for it; his eyes following her hands. “I practically forced it on them, and they had to smile through it for my sake.”

Disagreement pulled at her face as she put the lid back on the water bottle. “Is that how you see it?”

“How else am I supposed to see it? Especially with… what’s happened.” The accident, his family visiting a hospital room instead of enjoying the festivities, which was an irony in itself because they were revelries that he’d planned for them.

“Well,” lips pursing as she thought about it, her eyes fell on the challenge in his… the lack of hope, and suddenly she knew what to say, “the way _I_ see it? You threw a party for your loved ones _because_ you love them, but not everything goes as planned.” Sympathy and compassion laced her tone and her eyes, and she watched as it touched him, catching the way the lids of his eyes reflexively fluttered with it; watched him swallow down something that looked a little painful. “Maybe you didn’t see the signs, but they also didn’t share with you that there was a problem, because how are you expected to know them and what they’re feeling inside when they can’t reciprocate?”

They didn’t know him. It hadn’t been anywhere near long enough to reacquaint themselves with this new version of Oliver, so how could anyone expect _him_ to behave accordingly when he couldn’t know how?

He’d tried. That was more than what most people could say.

“So, you failed.” She said as he listened and he was a really good listener; she could tell that he took in the things he heard through every sense, not simply his ears. “Big whoop-ti-do.” He blinked at her word usage. “From failure comes learning. No one ever prospered in life by succeeding from minute one.”

It was oddly humbling to watch his eyes lower, to see something that might be appreciation make him have to do so.

“Anyway,” she finished on an exhale, “some things are more important in life and you have to put them first.”

He’d definitely jumped on the self-pitying bandwagon, if the self-deprecating smile was anything to go by. Though with Oliver, she was getting the picture that the guy really did believe he caused nothing but problems for people. “Like ditching my family.”

She hummed, mulling it over almost playfully. “I don’t think you would have left if it wasn’t important.” Something seemed to click in her then, her memories rushing back to the news being broadcasted in Oliver’s empty-of-Oliver bedroom that she’d seen before hearing that he’d been in an accident. The news report concerning the Hood and a group of people being held hostage. According to CNN, the Hood had saved the day… something was making sense in her chest, but her head wasn’t connecting the dots. “And clearly,” she said slowly, just looking at him, “going for that ride meant a great deal to you.”

The insinuation _didn’t_ fall flat.

“Yes.” He nodded once, speaking as quietly as she; expression quite blank. “It did.”

It was a dare.

Teeth touching her lower lip, her eyes smiled because this was probably the most interesting Christmas she’d had in years and it was all thanks to the man lying in a hospital bed. “I’ll let you sleep.”

“Wait,” clearing his throat and despite the obvious need to sleep off this round of pain killers, Oliver managed a frown, “you said that there are things that you do for the holiday.” _Uh oh_. “Feel like sharing?”

_No. But also… yes_. Even if it was kind of- _what? Embarrassing? Different? Weird?_ She inhaled. “Well, I don’t go on joy rides.” When he smiled, her shoulders bunched in her coat. “I… I help out at a few of the homeless shelters in the Glades.”

There was a drawn-out pause, where all Oliver did was look at her before he finally opened his mouth. “Oh.”

_Oh? What does ‘oh’ mean? I know what it means when I say it, but…_

And there was something very soft about the way he was taking her in; it didn’t look like pity, something she’d feared. It looked like strength. “That’s… wow.”

“I mean, I don’t help in the kitchens or anything.” The words just bubbled out - because the way he was observing at her was starting to make her cheeks heat up - and she pointed at herself with one finger. “Not a great cook. But I, ah…” _Just say it_. “I fix things. Their electricity. Faulty wiring and an eroded power box screwed one of the centres over last year and they almost had to close. And there’s a few of the guys down there who bring in things they find.” In garbage bags and in alley ways. “Some of it’s salvageable. They have microwaves now and a TV. I got them free cable. Routed their access to piggy-back off of an investment company.” _Why am I telling him this? _Her lips pressed together before speaking in her smallest voice yet. “Don’t get me arrested.”

But his voice was just _so_ kind and gravelly and his eyes were doing this thing that made her feel like he really did mean his next words. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“One of the shelter’s thinks they might be able to scrounge up security for the building and they want me to take a look. So, that’s what I’ll be doing on Christmas Eve. After work. Weird, right?”

She wasn’t sure why she added that. Helping out at the shelters had never been strange or embarrassing to her. It was the _right_ thing. And it wasn’t something she did out of atonement or some sense of duty. She liked to tinker and rarely got the chance to. The added bonus of helping an underfunded group of people, did wonders for her self-esteem too on the long Christmas nights that she spent alone. It was nice that the people there remembered her name too; especially since most of her colleagues at QC didn’t.

To other people, it might be an odd habit to keep. She wouldn’t apologise for it, but she really didn’t want to be judged for it either. Being laughed at, hurt.

“No.” Just that. Just ‘no’ in that near-whisper voice thing he sometimes did. “You’re a good person.”

It sounded different to the way Mr Diggle had said it. Oliver said it in such a way to make her think that he was apologising for not being the same, at the same time as he was startled by her. Stunned at her maybe, for not fitting a label or a box. She was an IT girl, a nerd and most saw only that. But she was also someone who helped out at homeless shelters by way of illegal cable.

She brushed it off for what it was. “I’m just like anyone else.”

The way he looked at her… she couldn’t read it. “You’ll be doing this on Christmas Eve?”

She nodded. “This year. When are you getting out of the hospital?”

“They said they need to keep me in for a couple of days.” And he looked so thrilled about that.

“Two threads to pluck.” Eyes tapering, she processed. “‘They said’ and, ‘a couple of days’.” Meaning, he wouldn’t listen, and a couple of days really just means one day.

“I don’t like hospitals.” He admitted.

“Most don’t.” And she stepped back because this was becoming threateningly close to being familiar. “I hope you have a better tomorrow.”

Once more, Oliver’s beautiful eyes took in her hair and glasses-less face. “Happy Hanukkah Felicity.”

* * *

“He came looking for you, you know.”

John Diggle’s voice made her turn to look back at him where he still stood outside of Oliver’s room, next to the door. “Hm?”

“Oliver. At the party, he came looking for you, but… something came up. Something he couldn’t avoid.” He took a moment to watch that sink in. “Just wanted you to know.”

Mouth closing, she looked at another example of finery in the male sex. And tried not to smile broadly at him. “Merry Christmas John.”

She failed.

* * *

It wasn’t until Dig removed his jacket that he spoke; a new fondness coating his voice. “She gives homeless shelters free cable. Of _course_, she does.”

But Oliver was preoccupied and didn’t smile back. “You were listening?”

John sat on one of the chairs. “Heard a few things.”

“She’s hiding something. About her and Walter.” He added at John’s quirked brow.

“Come again?”

“At the party Walter said that they’ve been doing additional work together.”

“It could just be that.”

“Except that Walter spoke to her like a friend. He wouldn’t elaborate on what they’d been working on.”

“…Is it important?”

“It might nothing. But it could be something.”

“Bad something or good something?”

“…I don’t know.” He exhaled, not looking once at John as he spoke; choosing the view from the wall length windows in the room that John felt were questionably situated at best to looking elsewhere. “But it can wait.”

They had more pressing concerns.

* * *

He hadn’t called back. Mr Steel hadn’t called her back.

“I should have called _him_.” She mumbled to herself, more of a whine really. “Why didn’t I call him?” Talking to Oliver had made her forget that her boss was going to call her back. “Maybe he has no signal after leaving the elevator.” An elevator she’d just stood in front of her, as if it would magically reveal that Walter Steel had simply been standing inside of its doors for an hour. Guilt squirmed in her stomach, even though she knew it wasn’t her fault that he hadn’t called her back. “Maybe he made it to his car and… forgot?” It didn’t sound like the CEO of Queen Consolidated.

Leaving the hospital had made her remember. Like the anal, petty criminal she was felt like she was, she’d traced the called, flowing the road it paved back to QC. He’d ended the call on the top floor and simply hadn’t called her back.

_He’s probably already at home by now_, she thought to herself as she walked swiftly out of the doors leading to QC’s internal parting area. _He’s warm and safe and having a Malt Whiskey-_

She stopped dead.

His car was still there. Untouched.

Staring wouldn’t reveal anything either but still, she stared. And stared. She stared until it hit her.

_This is a crime scene_.

Men like Walter Steel didn’t just leave their cars at work and disappear in elevators. _I need to trace his cell_. A thorough trace. She needed to do it right now. _Just in case…_

Just in case her boss had just become a missing person of interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've begun to realise that reviews really are necessary in writing so please... FEED ME THEM


	4. A Quiet New Years Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a quiet New Year's, not a creature was stirring; not even a mouse-  
Except there's a knock on Felicity's door and a week following Walter's disappearance doesn't make it a sound she wants to hear.  
Or is it?  
Set between 1.09 and 1.10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amount of reviews for this is stunning - love you guys. Writing small chapters is EASY - who knew *eye roll*  
Tell me what you think?

The knock on her door made her stand up and stare at it.

_It’s New Year’s Eve_. Who would be calling on New Year’s Eve?

It set her heart racing in a way it wouldn’t have done a week ago. Then again, she didn’t normally have callers at 10pm on New Year’s Eve. She didn’t normally have callers on _any_ night of a week-

The knock came again, jolting her into action. “Um, just a minute!” She winced as she moved around her couch, _why am I telling the possible serial killer at the door, who I hope is feeling kind, that I’m in?_ “Unless that’s you Mrs Liberman. In which case, _no_ I haven’t seen your cat.” Today. “Just ah…” She searched the area, seeing only her large umbrella as the closest literal weapon at hand, just in case. That and her taser, but it was all the way back in the kitchen. “Just one second!”

To get the taser or _not_ to get the taser?

She eyed the door.

_Get the taser_.

She was breathless when she unlocked the chain and unbolted the door, _need a peep hole,_ before pulling it open and bracing.

Somehow, she didn’t think any amount of bracing would have prepared her for who was on the other side.

“You need a peep hole.” Oliver instantly told her, expressionless. Frank. “The lock on your door is loose.”

On. Edge.

“Uh-”

“I thought you’d be out celebrating the New Year’s. Or,” his wide awake eyes shot down to her pyjama pants, her _very_ tight spaghetti strap top that she wore to sleep in because it hugged her breasts and, luckily, she hadn’t rid herself of her bra yet and was wrapped in a cardigan that slid off one shoulder, “something.”

Something _not_ at home.

They were words said like bullets fired and they kept her mouth stuck open and her eyes wide behind her rimmed spectacles. “Oliver?”

She pocketed the taser.

With an almost ‘caught in the headlights’ look on his face, his large chest expanded and contracted and there was something about it – _beyond being ever-impressive and drool worthy_ – something about that breath and the way he looked just then. The fading bruises on his face and the scrape on his brow. The short, thick hair; glittering with melted snow, the hollow- _His eyes are hollow_. Dark. He looked… a little bit desperate. “Hi.” Head bob. “Felicity.”

Bewildered, both at the way he sounded like he wasn’t sure if he’d wanted her to be home or not and at the clear way he seemed to be one trigger from cracking - whatever that meant on a man like Oliver Queen - Felicity shook herself. “That’s my name.”

He nodded, as if this was new information. “Hi.”

“_Hi_.”

_What the actual frack is happening right now?_

There was only silence in answer; lips pressing together, Oliver looked at her like he was asking her to please read his mind because he had no idea how to verbalise what was going on in there.

_Okay_. Astuteness slid into her tone, curiosity tapering in her eyes. “Why do I feel like you _didn’t_ want me to be here when you called?”

“Hm?” Then shook his head, blinking once - harshly - when her words made sense in his head. “_No_. No, it’s not-”

His eyes closed, cutting himself off.

…_Maybe_, she wondered as she stared at him_, he’s freaking out because he somehow knows my address,_ which meant he’d gone searching for the information without asking her directly. Without asking for permission. _Just something to think about_. _It’s a little stalkerish, but really no worse than anything I’ve done in my life._

Plus, he looked genuinely lost just then, and not the puppy kind of lost. He looked-

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” she started slowly, because it was hitting her slowly, “and guess that you didn’t take your pain medication?” Or any other kind of medication.

Eyes re-opening, they connected with hers and he exhaled through his nostrils.

_Right on the money_. Pain, worry, stress and lack of sleep. Add that to an island returnee’s PTSD and bingo: you get the man stood before her, overly aware of absolutely everything around him – _I think it’s called hyper vigilance_ – eyes slightly bloodshot, hair buffeted by-

“Wait,” her eyes flew over his very windswept self, “did you run here?”

Hot breath visible in the cold air, Oliver’s shoulders did this odd-shuffle thing; like he was a little preoccupied and had to actually think about the lie he’d be telling-

“Yeah.”

She blinked. No ridiculously fabricated story? No charming smile, no furtive gestures, no obscene requests?

Just Oliver, standing in the cold; looking at her like-

_Like he’s freezing cold_. “I’m sorry, I’m staring.” She quickly said, head shaking. “That’s so rude of me. Please,” bodily pulling back, she opened he door wide for him to enter, “come in.”

One second, two seconds-

He stepped into her home.

“…Thank you.”

Again. He looked and sounded surprised. He looked and sounded grateful, quietly so; the hyped-up awareness in his eyes decelerating into something less guarded. Something almost shy. _And shy on Oliver is um, very effective. _

Closing the door, she kept her eyes on him and- _was he always that big?_ The innuendo made her grimace. _Not_ big-_big, I mean… he looks taller here_. Broader. More. In her home, Oliver looked so much more than he did outside, and it was probably because her place was Felicity-sized. Or maybe it was just because, _Oliver Queen is inside my home on New Year’s Eve and this is a thing that I never thought would be happening, ever-_

“I like your home.” Murmured, it was spoken like he hadn’t planed to say it at all; his eyes fixed on the cushions, the squishy couch, the little oddities on the coffee table that she liked to tinker with and – the icing on the cake – the complete works of Robin Hood sitting on the floor. Every movie, every version of the legend based in Historical England.

She refused to be embarrassed by her love for it. _I. Refuse._

Now if she could tell her cheeks to do the same and not heat up a blaze at the way he was still taking them in, that would be-

“Felicity.” Eyes lifting from where they’d been glued to the very telling evidence of what might possibly be a hellaciously sad social life, he waited until she was looking at him. “Relax.”

All at once she felt the way she was standing, as if she’d been waiting for judgement and… he’d seen it.

Breathing out, forcing her fingers to stop tying invisible knots, Felicity sent him a rueful smile that she couldn’t help; despite having done nothing wrong. “Right.”

“I know it’s late.” It was throaty, his voice; but she couldn’t take pleasure in it the way she had before. Much. “I didn’t… I should have thought about it first.” It didn’t sound like an engineered flirtation to elicit a specific response for information. It was surreally anxious, because ‘anxious’ and ‘Oliver’ didn’t quite mesh. “It only hit me when I got here that you might be out.” Celebrating New Years.

“So, you _did_ run here.”

Not seeing the issue, his eyes slid to the side and back. “Yes?”

She wanted to eye roll. “It means you’re cold.” She felt the tiny crinkle in her brow form as she ambled over to her small kitchen - separated from her living area by a partial wall and the kitchen island, _not everyone can have a mansion home_ \- and looked back over her shoulder at him as her hands blindly reached for the tea. “Hot drink?”

Again, he looked adorably surprised. _He needs to stop doing that-_ “What?”

“Tea.” Brows arching at the odd way he was standing - like he had no idea what to do in her home - she gestured over to her fridge. “There’s some wine left over from Christmas if you’d prefer.” _A very little bit but, hey; no judging._ _Wine can heat the tum too._

“Ah,” mouth closing, opening, closing again; he cleared his throat. “Tea, please.”

“Tea it is.” She muttered as she reached for the cups, hearing him move closer to the kitchen. “So, what can I do you for, Oliver-”

_I hate my mind. I do. 99% of the time I love my brain, but right now – in this moment – I hate my mind._

What can I _do_ you for? _What can I _**do**_ you for?! Yes Oliver, can I _do_ you? Don’t mind if I do! _

Back to him, she wanted to crawl under the table and live there from now on. _There’s enough space_-

“I, er,” she couldn’t tell if it was humour or confusion in his tone, _get in line_, “I need your help.”

_That_ took her out of her internal chagrin. “With what?” Waiting for the water to boil, she turned to look at him.

It was odd how it hit her just then, the reason why she sometimes couldn’t read his expression. If her gut was correct, whenever he was putting on a ‘face’ - whenever he was lying or being someone else - she couldn’t read him because there was nothing to read. A mirror, not a self.

That emotionless mask - with tired eyes and tweaked out hair - spoke now. “With Walter’s disappearance.”

It was the very last thing she’d expected him to say. It shouldn’t have been, but it was. Hesitance and caution had made his eyes flicker away from her, which was good really… they didn’t catch the way she stilled when her stomach dropped. “Oh.” But her voice was quiet enough to regain that attention, pushing her to respond with something a little more concrete than ‘oh’. “Right. Of course.” Swallowing, she didn’t step closer like she wanted. It wasn’t safe this time. _For him_. “I… I can’t even imagine how it’s been for your family the past week.” Since his accident the night before Christmas Eve, though the paparazzi hadn’t left any of the Queen’s alone since then and for the first time, the news at Christmas was filled with a missing one percenter instead of a rising crime rate and festive consumerism. “Or you-”

“It’s for my mother that I’m asking.” The interruption was telling, and he looked… not haggard, but definitely worried. Definitely grasping at straws. “The police haven’t been able to find anything to suggest foul play; they think he’s either been taken or,” he took a breath, “he left.”

It was automatic, the ‘_buzzer’_ sound that came out of her throat. “Ixnay on the latter. Mr Steel isn’t the kind of person who can do that to people.” She explained at his eyebrow arch and blink. “Even if it was in his nature, you need money to disappear and he hasn’t divested money out of any of his accounts-”

It just slipped out.

And of course, he caught it. “How do you know that?” He asked, staring at her.

Lips zipping shut; she didn’t answer. _I am so incredibly fired- _Arrested. She could be _arrested_. She could be sharing a cell with ‘Bertha the butcher’ by the end of the week, or sectioned and forced to work for a corrupt government-

“Felicity,” stepping closer, his stare was as direct as they come and his tone, emphatic, “please.” Hand raised to her in a gesture of supplication, it was all he had to say. “I’m not here to get you into trouble. I just need some help.”

He was just looking for a new perspective. A plan. An answer. Something he could take home with him to ease his family.

And suddenly her own fears – her shame – meant very little. “What do you need me to do?” She asked, almost breathless at the idea of the truth coming to light, right here. Right now.

Chest and shoulders relaxing, Oliver expression went from pleading to lost in the space of a heartbeat, _poor guy_. “I’m not sure...” A _click_ behind her told her the water was ready and she gave him her back to share it between two cups, waiting for him to figure what he needed. “Is there any way you can trace Walter’s whereabouts, the night he went missing?”

She wanted to laugh; the irony of it all kicking mud in her face. “Yep.”

There was a moment of silence as she stirred.

“…Will you?”

She exhaled, looking down into their teas before turning around with them and meeting his eyes once again. “Come with me.”

Walking - _carefully, carefully_ \- back to her coffee table, she felt Oliver right behind her; reaching just as carefully towards one of the cups, freeing her of it and muttering, “Thank you,” as he did.

“Sit.” Sipping her drink as she followed her own orders, her cup was on the table and she was pulling her laptop closer before she paused. _Not yet_. She couldn’t show him that yet. She didn’t have enough proof. He wouldn’t believe her. _Who would?_

“Felicity?” Since she’d just stopped mid-movement, his concern split her name up into its syllables.

Gently pushing back laptop back across the table, her body slid back into her seat - taking her drink with her - and she twisted sideways to face him; her legs curing under her. “I already kind of _did_.”

Taking her in, Oliver sat even slower than she did with much more grace under pressure; _the pressure being several broken ribs and holes in his back_. “You did?” He watched her nod at him, her hands clasped around her cup as his frown turned questioning. “Why?”

“The night Walter vanished,” she started cautiously, “he was supposed to call me. When he didn’t, _I_ called him.” _As you do_. “It was after I visited you at the hospital.” He nodded, swallowing his own drink and licking his lips. “But he didn’t pick up.”

The hot tea lowered his voice. “Okay.”

“Since it wasn’t out of my way, I stopped by QC. I mean, it could have been nothing,” she babbled, before quieting; seeing how he already understood exactly what she was going to say, “or it could have been something. He could have had an accident.” It was oddly reassuring, having him sat at the opposite end of her couch; his body so much bigger than hers, his eyes on her as he drank her tea for warmth. “When I got there, all I found was his car in the garage. It had been an hour since he’d told me he’d call me back in ten minutes and since Walter Steel isn’t the kind of guy to forget something like that immediately after saying that he would…”

“You were worried.” He murmured the obvious; his face free of derision.

Feeling seen, she looked down at her drink; her voice small. “That’s putting it mildly.” The panic she’d experienced that night, and what she’d discovered after the fact…

To say, at the very least, that she’d grown a tad paranoid - afraid - would not be pushing it.

“So, you…” he started after a suitable amount of silence and a half cup of tea drank, “what did you do?”

“I traced his phone.” Clear, precise, cognisant. _Stick to the facts_. “Whoever took him hadn’t turned it off.” _Novice_. Or they hadn’t expected anyone to be tracking him. _Again, novices_.

“Whoever took-” Stopping when her eyes lifted gently - meaningfully - to his, Oliver hissed in a breath. “He was taken.”

He didn’t leave of his own free will.

She nodded, feeling horrible for adding to whatever he was carrying on his shoulders enough to make him go looking for where Felicity Smoak lived, when he was only partially healed; every time he moved, a muscle in his wonderfully structured cheekbones twitched, his neck tautened and his brow line flattened. He was in pain. “Oliver, _did_ you take any pain killers before coming here?”

“Pain killers are the last thing on my mind right now.”

“But your injuries-”

“Felic-” Patience was a virtue the Queen Heir possessed little of right now, but he was also tired. What little energy he seemed to have left went into sitting without slumping, but there was strength in his voice. “I need to hear something that I _don’t_ know.”

Seeing that, she took another gulp of her tea and glanced at him as the cup half-shielded her face. “The trace led out of the city.” She continued as he followed suit with his own cup, cradling the warmth of the pottery like she was as he settled further sideways into the seat. “Then it came right back into Starling the next day.”

He looked as nonplussed as she’d felt at the time. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” She knew exactly what that meant. “When I tried to pinpoint its new location in the city, the signal vanished.” A lie. This was where the lie would start. _But not for long_, she hoped. She just needed more proof.

She needed something tangible before she told him that the signal _hadn’t_ stopped, that Walter had been taken out of the city but that his effects - his phone and car keys - had been brought back to the Queen Mansion.

To Moira Queen.

_It could be a ransom demand… that she hasn’t done anything about or shared with the police_. But the rich were eccentric because they could afford to be; who knew what was going on behind the scenes. _Just the facts ma’am_, and the acts were this. Walter Steel had been taken. His phone and other personal items had been delivered back to Mrs Queen by the kidnapper the next day. Mrs Queen hadn’t told anybody about this.

Mrs Queen loved her husband.

Mrs Queen had a secret that her husband had carefully unwrapped.

This secret might have gotten him taken by bad people. _A secret we share._

She had to know. “How,” she spoke slowly, “has your mother been taking this?”

The question took him aback. “She ah,” blinking a few times as if to clear some cobwebs, he shifted; his arm lifting and settling over the back of her couch, despite his healing rib cage and back, “she…” Lips pressing together, he eventually shook his head at her. “Not well.” Breathing out, his closed coat strained where his chest forced it to stretch. “She locked herself in her room when the police told us there was no trace of her husband or evidence of foul play and she hasn’t left it.”

“Understandable.” She muttered. _And suspicious. Potentially nothing, possibly everything, and- This is Oliver’s mother. I can’t be thinking bad things __about Oliver’s mother… except Walter discovers a financial discrepancy; embezzled funds taken by Moira Queen and used to facilitate a subsidiary - Tempest - that wasn’t registered with the Secretary of State, where no federal tax records were found, and no patent applications filed. _

A cover story for something else; that something being a thing Mr Steel wouldn’t share, but _still_ a thing that made him go to Felicity again and request her aid in solving the riddle of a seemingly empty book that concealed the names of the rich and shameless; men and women who had been or are still involved in criminal activity that had aided in the fall of the Glades at some point over the last ten years.

Men and women who were being targeted by the Hood. A new and terrifying facet to the story. She’d correlated a search and had already marked off the names the Hood had taken out and the few killed by the man that the papers were ill-advisedly referring to as the Dark Archer. It was a pattern.

Somehow Oliver’s mother fit into it, she just didn’t know how. Or Why. Until she did, she’d do more harm than good telling Oliver about it right now.

“So, he’s not in the city.” Voice low, it wasn’t a question. “I was hoping…”

“Yeah.” _So was I_.

Then Oliver’s gaze honed, his brow line tapering and it was a little startling how his eyes glittered so darkly. “What were you and Walter working on?”

The million-dollar question.

Wanting to gulp, she stared at him. Then she looked down at her empty cup, head jerking as she then looked at his, before quickly sitting up straight and reaching for it. “I think I’m ready for that glass of wine!”

_Ignore, ignore, ignore the way he’s looking at you_, she told herself as she fled into the kitchen, opening a cupboard and searching for two glasses. _Like a puzzle he’d just a solved a piece of, like a cat with a writhing Canary in its claws, like a bird of prey with its sharp eyes on the prize-_ _this isn’t helping!_ Fridge already open, she was unscrewing the lid before she could think about what she was doing. _Just pour the wine_.

“You know, this year isn’t bad.” She randomly told him, her heart beating to the drum of her guilt. “The wine, not 2012.” Nerves audible in her voice; she coughed them away. “I thought, since you haven’t taken your meds-”

“Felicity-”

“-Then a glass of wine might help with the way you’ve been flinching with every move you make.” The words flew out of her, anything to take his mind of off what she hadn’t said, _but if wishes were horses…_

“You noticed that.”

Again, his voice was a near-whisper - _he can’t look hot _and_ sound hot; the world just isn’t that kind, though clearly it can be_ \- and his eyes were indeed watching her walk around the back of her couch instead of the front, as if proximity was dangerous now. He hadn’t moved; she was beginning to realise that sometimes it was more effective to let the other person ramble on and dig their own graves; he wouldn’t have to do a thing except stare at her.

“It wasn’t difficult to see.” She said as perkily as possible as she leant forwards to pass him his wine glass without looking him in the eye and-

“Felicity.” He repeated, firmly; _making_ her look at his pointed expression. But he took the wine. He looked mildly vexed with her, _but he took the wine_. “What are you not telling me?”

“It’s too soon.” The answer was suddenly clear. She could tell the truth and not tell him the truth. She could lie without lying. “I need more time.” Settling back into her place on the couch, she brought her legs under her again.

Slowly shaking his head, “For what?” Confusion warred with apprehension.

A shaky breath left her. “For me to figure out how it fits into all this.”

Very still now, alert in the oddest way - as if something had just clicked on in his brain - the apprehension gave way to something that made her chest tighten. Something that altered his voice just enough to make a difference; a something that made her think that what made other people afraid, might actually wake him up inside. “It’s dangerous.” He eventually concluded, unblinkingly. “What you were working on, it was dangerous.”

“It might be.” She whispered, taking a much-needed sip of wine and shuddering as it went down. “Potentially.” Then she sighed, her mouth twisting miserably as she saw the comprehension in him tell her that he wouldn’t leave this alone. “Probably.”

Brows lifting ever so slightly, face tightening, it looked more threatening than she figured he intended it to. Like a predator spreading its talons and his eyes were _so_ blue. “Tell me.”

Her head was already shaking. “Not until I know for sure.” _Not until I know that your mother isn’t involved the way I hope to god she isn’t_. Until then, she was putting her foot down. “Not until I can explain it to you properly.” Compassionate of his situation, she looked at him as earnestly as she possibly could. “I’m sorry.”

Mouth closing, she caught the way his jaw clenched as he looked away; back over the couch. Stiffly bringing his glass to his lips, he inhaled a large mouthful; swallowing it down without pulling a face.

Noticing something, her head tilted. “I’m _annoying_ you.” It wasn’t a question; he did look irritated.

If the way his secret-keeping eyes slid back to her face - pupils dilated, gaze piercing - without moving his head was any indication, ‘provoked into anger’ wouldn’t be too far from the truth. “That’s one word for it.”

Teeth tugging on her lower lip, she sent him an apologetic glance as she repeated. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

The smile that bloomed on her face felt silly, but it pulled her lip free without her permission. “If it’s any consolation, it’s for the good of your family.”

“It’s not.” But the speed of his words was soothed by the begrudging, if not indulgent way his face began to relax again; his head moving into a more comfortable position. “But I think you’re the only person I can trust to withhold the truth from me.”

“Um… thanks.”

As if that contradicting declaration hadn’t stunned her, Oliver simply took another mouthful of wine and allowed his gaze to wander. “What’s that?”

“What?”

A quizzical line took away most of the harshness from his face as he jutted his brow at the coffee table. “That.”

_That_ being her-

“It’s a prototype jammer.” Maybe the wine was making her loose-lipped or maybe she just didn’t care about how nerdy or quirky or weird she sounded to him anymore.

He stared at the array of bits and tools. “A jammer.”

“Yep.”

There was a moment of quiet before-

“And _you_ need that?”

But the way he said it…

Frowning, she eyed him over her glass as she took another sip. “Do you?

Only his eyes moved, meeting hers. Then his hand moved, lifting the wine to his mouth.

He never blinked.

Neither did she.

* * *

**New Year’s Day, 1am**

“So… you passed out on her couch?”

Hands on his face, fingers rubbing over his brows and the lids of his eyes, Oliver groaned into them. It wasn’t due to the pain in his side; _I’ve had worse_-

A towel hit him in the face.

“I’m just wondering,” Stirring a painkiller into a glass as the towel fell to the floor, John spoke as if he didn’t expected a response, “why you thought it was a good idea to walk twenty miles on New Year’s Eve and make your already worried family, more so. But, hey. What do I know?” He dropped the spoon on the closest metal table, peering up from the hi-ball glass as he watched Oliver bend over painstakingly, to retrieve the fallen towel. He was soaked to the bone. “_I_ was only trying to welcome in the New year with my nephew.”

Chagrin made the pain double in Oliver’s face. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine. No, really.” John pressed at his doubtful stare. “Celebrating another year without my brother isn’t exactly the kind of party I wanted to be having. Besides, Carly was tired. She wanted an excuse to call it a night.” Passing over the glass, he half-smiled at Oliver. “You did me a favour.”

A full smile might reveal just how funny he thought this whole thing was.

The towel literally lying on his head, the sight of Oliver dripping, moving awkwardly and attempting to drink down a frothy pain killer was hilariously pathetic. “At least one of us can say that.”

Eyeing him, John cut to the chase. “I assume you went there for a reason.”

Placing down the glass, Oliver gingerly began to dry his hair off. “I couldn’t listen to the silence in the house anymore. With my mother locking herself in her room, Thea’s started to do the same. It was getting depressing.” The irony of him finding other people’s behaviour depressing, when he spent half his time in a dark, dank abandoned factory was not lost on him as he pulled the towel off his head. “Coming from me, that’s saying a lot.”

John sighed. _You can’t say the Queen’s haven’t lived through the nicest 5 or 6 years_. “What’s the verdict?”

“Walter was taken by someone.” The immediate response had John blinking. The next sentence was slower to come and the resolve - the grit - in his tone, made Dig’s brow rise. “And Felicity knows why.”

“Really.” He watched Oliver carefully shirk out of his wet shirt; reaching for the hoodie he’d stashed for moments like this. “And I’m guessing she didn’t share.”

“No,” Oliver pulled the zip to his throat, “she did not.”

_That is one unhappy archer._

Lips pressing together, John nodded. “What are we going to do about it?”

Careful of his injuries, Oliver grabbed his jacket. “She asked me to wait. I’m inclined to give her the time she needs.”

“Why?”

Taking a moment to order his words, Oliver looked into nothing. “I think… _she_ thinks that I won’t believe a word she’ll say without proof and,” he looked back at Dig, “she wasn’t lying to me. There’s something only she knows. For now, that’ll keep her safe. I can take the time to heal.”

“And when you’re healed?”

The answer was easy to come. “I’ll try again.”

“And if you fail a second time? Just because she’s the last person people expect, doesn’t mean she can’t be targeted, if this secret is dangerous enough.” He explained at the irritated look Oliver threw at him. “Either this whole thing has nothing to do with her, or-”

“Or she’s the star player and no one knows it yet?” He shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Good.” Arms folding, John squared him a look. “Then you know what you’re going to do.”

“If she doesn’t tell me as Oliver, I’ll… visit her as the Hood.”

Ignoring how referring to himself in the third person creeped him out - ignoring the hesitance in the sentence, especially after his run in with the Dark Archer - John voiced his main concern. “Somehow I don’t think your usual antics will work on her.”

“Oh, they won’t. But if there’s something I know now about Felicity Smoak, it’s that she’s too capable. She’ll figure out who I am sooner or later, and it’ll be easier for me once she does.”

“And you’re totally fine with that, I see.” And see he did.

Nodding, absent from John’s wavelength, Oliver pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket to flick through his messages. “I visited her several times prior to the Christmas party; she’s practically a member of the team already.”

And a kernel of foreboding made it impossible for John to leave it at that. “You’d be willing to bring a civilian on board?” He asked, hoping for a negative response.

But Oliver had stilled, and he wasn’t looking at John. His finger and thumb were tapping against each other. “I need to apologise to her.”

_Finally_. “Why, because you intruded on her New Year’s, drank her wine, fell asleep on her couch, made her have to call me to pull your ass out of there before you did something stupid- oh wait.” Smiling, enjoying the internal way Oliver squirmed and the external way he glared. “You _did_ do something stupid.”

Like, pin Felicity Smoak to the floor when she tried to wake him up.

When John had arrived, Oliver hadn’t been able to look the IT girl in the eye - despite her looking like nothing was wrong and everything was right - as he’d muttered his thanks, his apologies, from where he’d forced himself to stand a mile away from her - hands clenched, eyes dark - before high-tailing to the car.

Diggle would never admit to Oliver that the glare on his face right now - the laser focus, the very real and present anger there, the energy and fire he knew lay waiting just under the skin - was genuinely unnerving. Anyone else might have wanted to pee themselves a little.

But Diggle knew Oliver and right now? Self-loathing was a go-to. “Again, you don’t have to tell me that.” The man in question told him.

“Lighten up a little, Oliver; she didn’t take it personally.”

“Well, she wouldn’t.” Face set, he practically crushed his phone in his grip. “Just like she won’t tell me what she thinks happened to Walter.” The next breath was sucked in through his teeth and this time John felt Oliver’s ire. His worry. “She’s… trying to protect me.”

_And when was the last time someone did that for you? _“It looks to me like she has her priorities in check.”

Oliver’s throat moved, even as he bit out. “Maybe she needs a recheck.”

But Dig could tell the words had no spine, could tell that little Miss Smoak had affected his friend with her words and her cute smiles, and it made him respond with words that had a backbone to bend. “I don’t know. Maybe she’s just very brave.”

“She was holding a taser when she answered her door.” Oliver admitted, speaking quickly. “I saw her pocket it when she realised it was me.”

That changed things a bit. “So, she’s worried.”

Breathing in some calm, Oliver met Diggle’s eyes; his expression quite blank. “Or she’s afraid.”


	5. Good Girl, Bad Girl?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was taking the bull by the horns and she owned her decisions. Walter needed to be found.  
If only she didn't stand out quite so much. Worst that Felicity doesn't know that she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this took a shift. I now know where I'm going with this story.  
Give me your thoughts peeps: I LOVE THEM.  
Takes place at the end of 1.10

_I’m a bad girl._

Teeth biting down on her lip, keeping her eyes on the empty doorway of the office as she leant over the keyboard; the thought repeated._ A very bad girl._

She’d only needed a minute.

_Correction,_ feeling like her fingers were moving faster than a Helium molecule, she released the trojan and stepped swiftly back from the computer like it had just bit her. _I’m a bad girl with a wicked intellect and a mind like a pachinko machine. _

_And I can’t let go._

She puffed out breath - hands landing on her hips - as her heartbeat quit its race with her anxiety and began to slow down, now that the task was done.

The task in Moira Queen’s office.

And the severity of said task dawned on her in a way she hadn’t let it, until now. “I just placed an intercept programme on my boss’s, boss’s computer. I just hacked my boss. I am willingly _spying_,” because she couldn’t that stress enough to herself, just in case there was the possibility that she was exactly the kind of wet noodle who couldn’t go through with this as opposed to the dry noodle who _could_, “on Oliver’s mother.”

The implications hit.

She was going to be sick.

Best case scenario? She’s completely wrong about all of this, loses Oliver’s friendship and possibly her job.

Worst case scenario? She’s 100% correct, Walter is dead, Oliver hates her, she loses her job and then - quite possibly - her life. In that order.

_Yay, me_. Pulling a face, feeling wan and swallowing, her mouth opened-

“Wait,” pulling up - the bridge of her nose crinkling - and her lips puckered. “I’ve… done this before.” She searched around her without physically moving. “I’ve been _here_.” _Talking to myself_. “In this office-”

_“You’re cute.”_

_Whoa. _The memory dawned on her, making her whisper. “Major déjà vu.”

And one thing _too_ many to feel badly about.

Still, stomach twisting, she couldn’t help but… look. “It’s still here.” His picture. On his mother’s desk. The desk where a computer sat; the same computer she’d just illegally and unethically hacked into to plant her own personally augmented, near-untraceable algorithm that would allow her entry via a digital backdoor to monitor Moira Queen’s calls, business transactions, communiques… everything.

Invading her privacy, her life.

_There’s a reason for that. A very good reason_. But first, it was too easy for her brain to draw its own comparisons between her first memory of the office.

Mere weeks after she’d first started working at QC, she’d been asked to hand over the monthly report from the IT department by her then supervisor, a man with two children who he’d wanted to get home to see and- _who was I to tell him that he couldn’t because I wanted to get home to my Netflix and ice cream?_ And she’d needed the overtime. She’d needed to gain ground as young as she was, in a competitive working environment.

The picture had invited, like a moth to a flame. She’d circled around the table to get a good look at the man who’d disappeared 2 and a half years before. A man she was sure she would have never met anyway and, therefore, was very comfortable admitting aloud just how _cute_ he was. How devastating it was, even for a stranger, that he was most likely dead at sea, because even Cooper hadn’t made her melt at first sight. At a picture.

The universe always did have either a dreamy or spectacularly _craptastic_ sense of irony with her. Two ends of a spectrum. Dreamy, because she’d met Oliver in the flesh and had melted all over again. Craptastic, because she’d gotten _involved_. She’d fallen in the deep. And now, she wasn’t getting out of this unscarred.

_Why am I doing this?_

Like the first time she’d realised what she had to do, when her fears had tried to convince her otherwise, the proverbial lightbulb flickered on; it was for Walter.

_And_ it was for Oliver.

Two men; _mom always told me that men would get me into trouble one day, though I _don’t_ think she meant quite like this_.

It had been six weeks since Walter Steel had been kidnapped. She’d asked Oliver for some time and it had taken the remaining five to decide on a course of action; one that would absolutely cost her.

“It’s the right thing to do.” The words were quiet, and her voice trembled mid-way through. But she’d _said_ them. Aloud. She’d decided and she owned her decisions. “Get to it.”

So, she did exactly what she did back then.

Head high, job complete, she walked right on out of the office - _no more embarrassing babbling for me_ (until the next time) - hearing her heels clip against the floor as turned-

Just in time to see Moira Queen exiting the elevator.

She stumbled to a stop; eyes widening, heart thudding.

_Oh. Holy. Mother. Of. Frack._

She wasn’t supposed to be there yet. There was a meeting- _wasn’t there a meeting?!_ Being brought in as the interim CEO wasn’t without its paperwork and investors where just on the right side of annoying to keep her occupied, _at least until dinner_. A meal that the Queen Matriarch would share with her numerous friends and chairmen at some swanky pants hotel-

“I wasn’t aware I already had an executive assistant.” It was said in such a way to make Felicity think that if given the choice, she’d be the _last_ person Moira Queen would employ- not that it was an insult considering her various degrees were _not_ based in the secretarial arts-

“Wait,” high society manners made Oliver’s mother refrain from commenting further but her memory seemed impeccably present, “I remember you.” First impressions are everything and _clearly,_ she’d made one at the Christmas party and-

_“H-he was just saying,” Felicity took over for some god awful reason; _ _seriously someone needs to stop me_ _, “that I do my best work in the dark-” Eyes shut tight, mouth closed, wine glass very secure; Felicity felt like dying._

_In front of his mother_ _. _ _She’d said that in front of his mother._

She was so unbelievably screwed.

Yet as Mrs Queen came up close and personal with Felicity - stopping to within a foot from her - she gave no positive or negative indication of the event. Instead, with the slightest furrow of her brow, her calculating gaze swept down over her figure and once was enough for _this_ intrepid IT girl to immediately second guess her choice of attire and, indeed, all her choices in life.

_I should have worn my flats today. I alternate._ The heels made her roughly the same height as Mrs Queen - meeting on eye length - and for some reason that felt far more dangerous than being shorter.

_Why did I think it was a good idea to wear my hair down?_ Having made her decision, she’d wanted to look how it had made her feel; wild. Nervous. Honest. So, she’d let her hair down and instead of creating smaller curls that take over her vision, she’d combed it out into larger waves that made her face seem less ‘sweet pixy’ and more…. _More_.

That, and a dark blue skirt matched her long-sleeved shirt and blue rimmed glasses.

In front of Moira’s grander fashion sense however - the thousand-dollar perfume forgiving against her olfactory senses, the way her clothes screamed MONEY and her daily salon styled hair - it felt like a crass attempt. Not that it _had_ been any kind of attempt; just a need to feel free.

“Mrs Queen.” Gulping, she hurried on; hoping that her brain was in front of her mouth this time. “I just- I wanted to…”

The slow rise of an immaculately tweezed, blonde eyebrow made her simultaneously die inside and take a breath.

“I just wanted to offer my sympathies.” No stutter, no quake. _Curly fries to me!_ “For Mr Steel.” _Actually, I’m really hungry-_

“Thank you.” Since it felt like she hadn’t finished her sentence, Felicity waited with bated breath for- “Miss Smoak.” That.

She _did_ remember.

Finally looking away - and she didn’t realise the added weight of Mrs Queen’s stare until then, _like gravity; phew_ \- the older woman exhaled and inspected her fingers. Her wedding ring. “Obviously, he’s still missing.” Feeling like a plank of wood - stiff as a board with zero brain cells - Felicity could have dug herself a hole. “The police haven’t found anything to suspect foul play. At this rate,” she sighed, revealing a surprising vulnerability in the socialite’s face, “I’ll be forced to admit to the public that he’s simply left us.”

But the way she said it… like it was a statement of fact, nothing to worry about, as easy as lint on her shoulder to admit. Discard.

_What?_

No, she was seeing things. Hearing things. There was a melancholy to her face, _see? She’s sad_.

Exhaling, the woman in question raised her eyes - thankfully missing Felicity’s falter in composure - and looked at her.

But had she dropped her eyes… to conceal a lie?

_Stop it._

“Well, Miss Smoak?” And that was a perfected ‘is there a reason why you’re gawking at me, beyond inept clichés and well wishes’ stare if there ever was one.

“Ah-” _Work brain, work_. “No! _No_.” Mouth closing, she cleared her throat. “Just, er… just _that_. Though now that I think about it, it does feel like I came up here for nothing.” Smiling like the idiot she was beginning to feel like, “I’m sure Walter didn’t leave you Mrs Queen, however the alternative seems so much worse and erm…”

Her hands fluttered with unease as she stepped to the side; carefully making her way around the woman who could destroy her life effortlessly and _oh, look_. Moira was roving with her.

“Forget that I was here!” _Please_. “I’m part of the furniture.” _Hah-hah, not funny, move on_. “I’ll just…” _Leave so that my deployed virus can invade your life on a gut feeling and a TINY bit of evidence,_ “…be going.” Turning so that she was walking backwards - _dangerous_ \- her thumb flicked towards the elevator. “This way.”

She was pressing the call button like it was going to bring her the new FSX processor, when her fears were leapt upon by a predator in Prada.

“Walter said that you were both working together on something.” Moira stated and though it wasn’t a question, the expectation of an answer was implied in her tone.

Eyes - head - briefly glancing her way, “ah,” her palms started to sweat, praying for the elevator to rise already; _how is it twenty floors down?_ “He was head-hunting me for promotion.” _He was?_ She impressed by how she didn’t completely shatter at the farfetched lie. “With Unidac Industries under QC’s belt, there were a few opportunities available and he wanted a fresh perspective.” That sounded… _okay_. Sort of-

“A fresh perspective.” A very light tip-tap of an expensive shoe told Felicity that Moira was moving closer, _oh frack_, but she stopped after two paces; just close enough to see Felicity’s face as she lied like a liar-liar with her pants on fire. _Oh frack, oh frack, oh frack_. “From a woman as young as you?”

“From someone with a 170 IQ, two degrees and a Duel Master’s in Computer Technology and Cyber Security.” Voice light - almost faint but loud enough to be heard - Felicity blew out a breath, checking on the progression of the elevator above her head and trying not to let her foot tap to the pounding in her chest until- _ping_. “I’d say that makes me qualified.”

Then she made the mistake of looking back.

Moira Queen was watching her.

Just that, watching.

Eyes lighter than Oliver’s - very much like ice - the setting sun gave them an eerie glow as she watched Felicity move forwards, wearing one final close-lipped smile as she escaped into the elevator.

Moira hadn’t smiled back.

She hadn’t really done anything to warrant the shiver down Felicity’s spine. _So, why do I feel like a kid caught with my hand in the cookie jar?_

* * *

“…Felicity?”

_Drat._

Caught for the _second_ time by a Queen in ten minutes, it was odd how one occasion could make her go rigid whilst the other-

“Hm?” Head lifting up, body bent forwards - _I’m going to fall over, aren’t I; I’m going to fall over when I was trying to be invisible and aloof_ \- hair falling over one shoulder and her heel covered foot currently resting said heel in the palm of one hand for inspection, Felicity blinked at him; speaking around the red pen in her mouth. “Oliver.”

Of course, the first thing that hit her was _that_ memory during the final hour of 2012.

_“Oliver?”_ _Whispering made zero sense to her - as did the way she tip-toed around to him - considering she was about to wake him up, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “Hey.”_

_To touch the extremely attractive billionaire snoozing on her sofa or not to touch him?_

_Completely silent - _so he’s hot and he doesn’t snore, that had to be unfair_ \- the Queen heir was lounged into the crevice of her old sofa; legs sprawled, eyes closed, face… utterly relaxed._

_Sleeping._

_He’d nodded off after polishing the first glass of wine and she hadn’t immediately noticed. _Either I’m really boring company or he isn’t as healed as he pretended to be_. What had surprised her is that, though she knew very little about how he was with everyone else, she did know that if there was one way to describe Oliver Queen, it was guarded._

_To drop said guard like that… _he must have been exhausted_._

_Watching the rise and fall of his chest, knowing Mr Diggle would be there at any moment; Felicity’s hands fidgeted with the too-long sleeves of her cardigan._

Touch him.

_It felt oddly like crossing some sort of invisible line, but she persevered and reached out anyway as she crouched. “Oliver.” Level with him height-wise, her hand landed son his shoulder and lightly gripped him. “Ol-”_

_A larger, stronger hand wrenched her arm up and away. “Oh!” Yelping - flinching - she lost her balance and toppled backwards-_

_His body followed her down, moving so swiftly and quietly that it shocked her into silence, and he was on top of her before she could think. _

_Mouth opening, “Wait-” _

_She was silenced by the arm landing _not_ lightly across her throat and the hand that closed over her mouth. Wide eyed, she stared up at him as his broad body completely covered and surrounded her own, his chest keeping her flat to the floor, his eyes utterly focused, furious and alert in a way that made a prickle of something course down her spine-_

_Then he froze; cold eyes boring a hole in her skull._

_Maybe it was feeling the soft cotton of her pyjamas beneath him. Maybe it was how small his _attacker_ actually was, or maybe it was the glasses over her startled eyes that held zero motivation for violence in them. Maybe it was the way she wasn’t fighting back, the way her hands hand landed on his biceps to brace without pushing at him._

_But something brought him back. Something made him see her, made his gaze soften in genuine confusion before quickly filling with terror._

_He shot off her with such ease and speed, it left her blinking up at the ceiling. Then the absence of his weight on her throat made her realise he’d cut off her air supply and she choked out a cough that shocked her enough to sit up, to have her hand cup her neck._

_“I’m-” _

_Eyes flying to him, her heart sank._

_Side on, almost forcing himself into the corner wall - and for a man much larger than her to try to do that, the sight was hard to look at - Oliver took in deep, shaken breaths. _

_He wasn’t looking at her._

_“I’m sorry.” Voice hoarse with sleep and self-condemnation - _he’s punishing himself_ \- Oliver dragged his hands down his face, his words muffled. “I didn’t…” Head shaking, she struggled to hear the mutter. “I didn’t mean to- to do that.”_

_“I know.” Said ‘matter of fact’, it made him jolt. “Um, you didn’t hurt me.” Not really._

_He wouldn’t turn. “…I’m sorry.”_

Now, stood several feet away and looking like he wasn’t sure whether he should further encroach on her personal space, she could see the same memory affecting him in his Oliver’s extreme hesitance. “Hi.”

_I should probably take the pen out of my mouth_. She did just that and dropped her foot. “Hello.” Eyes flickering over his face, she lifted her hand to subtract the pen. “You look good.” That sounded like a come on. “I mean better! Healed. _Not_ that you don’t look good too, you look perfectly… perfect.” _Ugh_. She sighed, her head titling in reluctant acceptance. “You could just stop me when I do that.”

Lips pressed together; he slowly shook his head. “I don’t think I’m fast enough.”

She probably looked as unimpressed as she felt, _really?_

He ignored it completely. “Something wrong?” He gestured to her shoe.

“Caught it in the elevator grid.” _And I was avoiding you_. “It’s fine.”

Not that she’d _wanted_ to avoid the man who’d left half a dozen bunches of assorted flowers and a full _dozen_ potted plants - _beautiful ones, but there were TWELVE pots people_; she still hadn’t found a home for half of them - at her front door for her nosy neighbours to tell her about, a single day following New Year’s Day.

They came with a door stuck to the door: _‘I’m sorry for not being a respectful house guest, but thank you for letting me in.’_

It had been… overwhelming. Lovely. _It touched me_.

However, she hadn’t seen him since. _Not that I expected for him to call or anything_. She sincerely hadn’t, but five weeks of silence had told her one thing.

Oliver felt guilty.

Nodding to himself, head lowering; he sounded quietly nervous. “About… New Year’s.” When those eyes lifted back to hers, the was an earnestness there that made her have to catch her breath. “I…” Head shaking, mouth open; he struggled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t... I didn’t mean to do that.” Swallowing, he looked _so_ frustrated at his inability to verbalise his thoughts it made him appear - for the first time - like a man who’d spent five years separated from everything he loves.

He looked helpless. 

And that helplessness took a gigantic U-turn at the calm ‘er, what are you talking about,’ in Felicity’s tone. “Obviously.”

His brow tapered. “Right…”

Tilting her head, she smiled at his blank face. _This is kind of fun_. “It was fine. The grabby thing,” she felt the need to explain and therefore dug into more perilous waters, “not the falling on top of you, thing- not that that was a problem, just not the _fine_ I was referring to- not it _was_ fine though! I mean it was!” _Why am I still talking?_ “You’re fine, every inch of-” Forcing her lips to shush with a _grunt_, her eyes closed on a grimace and her head tilted back.

_Just great._

Worse, he’d been doing that thing. That overly good looking, ‘I’m trying not to smile but my eyes are failing’, thing.

“I can _hear_ you smiling,” she grumbled without moving, and this breathy thing fanned out from his mouth against her hands, which were almost held in prayer; _couldn’t hurt_, “and it isn’t helping my fragile ego.”

“Your ego’s safe.”

_Yep_. Totally smiling.

_Save face_. “The flowers were…” and she sighed the kind of sigh that every woman released who’d been given flowers, “they were beautiful. Excessive but beautiful.”

“It was worth it.”

That made her peek at him, her head lowering in stops and starts. “The flowers or falling on top of me?”

Shaking his head, Oliver’s gaze moved around them. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Um, home?” Straightening her glasses, she amended. “_Food_, then home.”

He hummed. “Feel like company?”

A stream of naked firemen could have walked through the lobby in QC and she wouldn’t have noticed. “Huh?”

Stepping back, he gestured to the entrance. “My driver knows a place.”

Wearing his jeans, paired with a leather jacket and boots - his arms by his side - his expression told her that he’d decided that today was a good day to obliterate any preconceived expectations she might have had of him.

His face was _soft_.

Not that it had been harsh before. Controlled, maybe. Observant. It had been gentle too, but not soft, not like… _this_.

“Dinner?” She repeated dumbly, blinking like a demented owl. “Aren’t you here to… why _are_ you here?”

“I was going to see my mother, but it can wait.”

At the mention of Mrs Queen, Felicity debated whether she even could eat a morsel now. “Are you sure?” _Are you sure you want to invite me to dinner?_

Well… he’d invited her to his Christmas party.

_But I just put a tap on his mum. _

“Yeah.” It was strange that he could blink in such a way to communicate so much. “I’m sure.” Eyes tracing her face, he did it.

He smiled.

And there it was, the tingle of heat. The flush on her chest and the curl in her tum.

Everything about his mother, about all the possibilities fled out of the proverbial window and she decided to simply take this moment. “Okay.”

Who knew what would happen? And the truth would come soon enough; she had time before he hated her. _Plus, hungry_.

They were exiting the building - with Oliver opening the doors like a gentleman - when said driver made his appearance. “That was quick.”

“Change of plans.” And was it just her or did Oliver sound like a happy camper as he stepped in? “We’re going to dinner.”

Stood in front of the car - a long black coat worn over what she was sure was a suit - Mr Diggle eyed them both. “All of us?”

“All of us.”

And then they did this _thing_; they nodded but they made it look like so much more. They both frowned, looking severe, and then this _sound_ left John Diggle’s throat as another, softer note left Oliver’s. It was such an absurdly serious gesture - when they were _just_ going out for food - that the words were tumbling out before she could help herself.

“Ah, yes.” They both looked at her. “The male ‘head nod and grunt’.” Lips pressed together, she watched Oliver cough and look away; but Mr Diggle didn’t seem to feel the need. He flat out watched her mock them with a smile on his face. “Lots of,” her hand lifted, fingers forming a claw, “_grr_.” She pantomimed a masculine tone, eyes empathic. “_Dude_. We are men. _Manly_ men- hey Oliver?”

Because she’d caught it and was sublimely prepared for it. For his smile. A real, tooth revealing grin and he turned before he could hide it; a brow arching at the phone already lifted-

“Caught.” Pulling it back, she looked at the picture; feeling oddly giddy. It was a very good shot. “You should smile more Oliver.”

“What?”

How could he make that sound so ridiculously sexy, husky and surprised… about a _picture_.

She peered up at him, a lock of hair falling into her face. “It’s only fair.” She softly told him, watching as his eyes flickered to the errant piece of her fringe resting on her cheek; looking at the way he seemed engaged and quietly intrigued enough to stay quiet as she spoke. “You took mine.” The _first_ time he’d stepped into her office, and he’d insisted on it so that when she called – like she ever would – he’d know it was her.

_“I’m digitally challenged.” _

Sure, he was.

“Ah.” Mouth closing, the remnants of the smile lighting up his eyes seemed impossible to push down. “Yes. I did.”

Smiling as Mr Diggle opened the rear car door on the right side, she slipped into the open space offered to her; careful of the expensive leather seats, just in time to hear said driver speak.

“You took her picture?”

* * *

Old instincts screaming at her, Moira Queen finally pulled her gaze away from the open drawer in her office where she’d hid Walter’s phone, his picture and wallet.

_Foolish_, she knew it was. But she’d needed the reminder, to know that she’d see him again.

_“From someone with a 170 IQ, two degrees and a Duel Master’s in Computer Technology and Cyber Security. I’d say that makes me qualified.”_

Hands pressing down the front of her cream blazer, she sat at her desk with grace. _But some reminders come in pretty blonde packages and that won’t do_.

It was a hunch, nothing more.

_Walter, what did you do?_

Who did he tell?

…_Did_ he even tell?

_He knows better. He’s smarter than that. He wouldn’t trust such a secret to an IT girl with implausible dreams of being mistress of my house. _She’d been here before, with Robert. More than once.

But Walter wasn’t the same. He wasn’t ruthless and he wouldn’t consider infidelity; but he had a quiet strength she’d underestimated.

_My children will always come first_. Even before her own morality.

Reaching for her office phone, she dialled a number she’d long since memorised.

“Richard?” She spoke when the voice on the other end said her name. “I know I promised not to call you from here, but I need you to do me a favour. Check the calls Walter made on his cell in the week before he… yes. Do that and then I need you to look into someone. Her name is Felicity Smoak; she works in the IT department at Queen Consolidated. Yes, I’m aware of how it sounds… I’m considering the possibility that Walter may have told someone about Tempest… No, just bring me the information. This doesn’t need to get out of control.” _To get back to Malcolm_. “If it correlates, we’ll take action.”


	6. Trust But Verify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surface sweetness, stupidity and... tension?  
Beneath the surface, it's serious... or it would be but Felicity has things on her mind. Like wine. And blue eyes. Blue eyes and red wine. Mine.  
It's a nice distraction from the 'knowing'.   
What's the worst that could happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pathetic - I'm updating early because overtime is so dull and I'm tired, so here you go!  
It's set in 1.11

Before she could brace or speak or figure out a magical escape from the tiny space that held no other escape option, the doors in front of her were yanked open and a pair of eyes she’d been thinking about a lot lately, stared straight-faced at her.

“What are you doing?”

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._

It wasn’t every day that she was caught hiding in a closet. Correction, in the _CEO’s_ closet. Amendment of the correction, in the CEO’s _office_ closet where the CEO currently wasn’t, _because I can’t plan when I panic and I panicked, okay_-

“Felicity!”

Jolting, “Oliver!” Then she flushed at how he’d split her name into its syllable points with his _tongue_. Heart pounding on the springboard in her chest, she gaped at Oliver’s face. His ‘I just caught Felicity Smoak in my mother’s closet and it’s officially the weirdest thing to happen to me today and that’s saying a lot’ face.

“I’ll rephrase.” And did he sound annoyed? _I think he sounds annoyed_. _He definitely looks vexed about something, with his face all tight like that-_ “What are you doing _here_?”

Her eyes side-lined. “Where?”

Blue, _blue_ eyes bore into her own. “In here.”

“In this closet?”

Unmoved, rigid shouldered; Oliver blinked once. “In my mother’s closet _and_ in my mother’s office.”

“Um…” _think fast, think fast_, “I’m hiding, obviously.” _FAIL_. Hands raised to keep them from bumping into the dusty walls, they lifted to straighten her glasses. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Another blink, and his tone was a _little_ less welcoming than before. “Looking for you.” She could see his _teeth_ and his fingers were gripping the closet doors a tad tightly and-

_Wait, what?_ “Y-you were? You _are_?”

Slowly, he nodded. “Mm hm.”

“Oh… why?”

His smile, given the close-lipped nature of his expression - and his very-nearly-a-whisper voice - wasn’t so much a lie as it was a threat, but honestly? “Shouldn’t you be answering my question first.” To her, it was about as threatening as a soaked cat. She kind of wanted to pinch his cheeks a little. Pat his head. Stroke his-

_Never mind._

There was quiet as he waited for her to say more.

She didn’t.

Lips near-pursing, he pronounced her name with perfect clarity. “_Felicity_.” So much in one word, one name.

She blink-nodded. “Yes?”

Forcing out a breath, his jaw tightened. “Really?”

Her head tilted.

He didn’t think she was being cute. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”

Eyes narrowing with a challenge, she whispered. “What do you _think_ I’m doing?”

A large, contained breath puffed up his chest.

No, she wasn’t drunk. She hadn’t lost the plot. She just wasn’t exactly sure _how_ to explain to Oliver that she’d decided to confront his mother personally about discovering that the offshore LLC (limited liability company) - Tempest - that Moira Queen had set up with the ‘missing’ $2.6 million to buy a warehouse in 2009, had concealed the wreckage of the Queen’s Gambit. With a little bit – _a lot_ – of digging and some bits and pieces left by Walter, Felicity had uncovered a money trail.

Moira had paid a man, a very shifty man called Richard Clyde - a man who practically didn’t exist, _I know because I worked overtime trying to find him,_ a man who Moira Queen had made a few calls to other the past week - to investigate what was left of the ship for malicious tampering and to keep it _quiet_. When Felicity uncovered that he’d reported back - _because if it’s online, if there’s a money trail, if either Mr Clyde or Mrs Queen made a call, then I will find out about it_ \- to Mrs Queen with the fact that C2 explosives had been planted in the engine room and set on a timer - so that the ship would be safely far out of reach in the China Seas when it reached its end - Felicity could only stare dumbly at her screen.

The ship that had taken Oliver away from his family for five years had been sabotaged. It hadn’t been an accident. Putting the magnitude of that statement aside, someone had wanted to _kill_ Robert Queen.

Oliver hadn’t originally been part of the itinerary; he was a by-product. Collateral.

But for some reason, instead of going to the police, Oliver’s mother had kept shut. _Why?_ Hadn’t she wanted justice?

Had… someone threatened her? _She doesn’t come across as the kind of woman easily threatened; more like the person who does the threatening_.

But there was more. The list of names held a connection somehow. And according to Walter’s notes - that he’d kept on a separate server, which was smart, but it had been flinchingly easy to hack into - he’d found the ship in question.

He’d even taken a picture with his phone, one she’d saved. One she’d downloaded.

Also, the man he’d trusted enough to have the wreckage moved to a secure location - where he’d be able to coordinate an offense with the FBI to find out who’d murdered his once friend, Robert - a Josiah Hudson, had been killed in a car accident the night he’d tried to do exactly that.

_Coincidence? I think not! I also think, scary. I think, _incriminating_ and scary; no wonder Walter was kidnapped._

Her hack hadn’t been a wiretap; she didn’t have access to what was being said per call, nor could she access Mrs Queen’s direct cell.

If Mrs Queen was being threatened, then Felicity wanted to give her a chance. That way, when Felicity took it higher, she’d be able to help Moira in all sorts of white-hat - _cough, illegal hacking, cough_ \- ways that could keep her safe.

_If._

That’s what she’d come up to her office to do. Instead she’d heard Oliver talking to his mother’s EA - promoted as of four days ago - after coming out of the elevator and she’d panicked… by hiding in the musty closet. Hiding from Oliver.

Whose jaw had just twitched.

She swallowed. _I didn’t want to see him until I spoke to his mother_. Then she could tell him everything and would do exactly that, because she’d wanted to for weeks. But his mother deserved a chance not to be blindsided. Breathing out, she gave him something. “I was waiting for your mother. You’re not your mother.”

“Evidently.” Voice low, he stepped back and pulled the doors fully open. “Will you come out of the closet please?”

“That’s what she said.” _Do not smile-_

If an expression could be described as a sound, _his_ would be a growl.

“Right.” Once again not wearing more practical clothes in order to go super sleuthing - like lots of black, _that works right?_ \- Felicity hopped one foot out first, then the other; her stretchy skirt pasted to her thighs and her soft white blouse only slightly creased. _Be cool_. “Hey, so-”

“What is this about?” It was straight to the point and he looked at her like he was mildly concerned for her mental health and confused, _again_.

“Look, I…” she started, making a face at her own ineptitude. “I came up here to talk to your mother and see if she needed anything. You know, with Walter gone?” It wasn’t inaccurate _exactly_.

“_Okay_.” Dragging out the word, his eyes flickered over her form before repeating, “okay,” in a lower, softer octave; his face gentling, and it made her think that what she’d said had touched him.

She tried not to squirm at that. _Oh, I really want to tell him_. It didn’t matter if he ended up hating her, he deserved the truth.

But his mother deserved a _chance_.

“Anyway, when I heard you coming down the hallway,” she gestured back outside, “I realised how stupid that actually sounded out aloud and I panicked.” Not _incorrect_.

“You hid in her closet.”

“I do not panic well.”

The side of his mouth lifted. “And this has nothing to do with,” he sucked in a breath before daring to say the words, “finding out what happened to Walter?” The side of his mouth _uncurled_.

_Whoa, since when can he see right through me?_ Clearing her throat and looking down at her clothes - checking for dust bunnies - she straightened her shirt. “I asked you to give me time.”

“That was six weeks ago.” It was low, his voice.

And peering back up, the way the calm in his face seeped out, making way for… _not_ calm, made her uneasy. _So much for super sleuthing._ “Yes, it was.”

Expression tight, Oliver didn’t blink this time. “And what does it have to do with my mother?”

A shallow breath left her, and her voice trembled. “It might not be what I think.”

“Felicity-”

“Oliver, please…” mouth closing, she looked him in the eye and pleaded. “Give me a few hours?”

The way his eyes searched for the secret was almost furious. “It’s my sister’s birthday party tonight.”

_Lots of Queen parties_. But the fact that he was putting it first in his agenda really was unbelievably sweet. “Then I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Morning.”

She nodded. “Tomorrow morning.”

It took him a moment and she let him look, let him try to reassure himself. “Promise me?” It was a rumble, his voice.

“I promise.” She whispered.

One more day for Oliver to be her friend.

* * *

“So,” walking back into her office - and she’d tried to accept with perfect nonchalance that the Queen heir had followed her down 18 floors - the clap of her heels was starting to make her feel abruptly self-conscious, “when we went to Big Belly burger last week, you didn’t bring up that you’d had a fire in your new club.” Brows raised, she sent him a glance over her shoulder as she entered her cubicle which was reassuringly situated away from prying eyes. “I’d ask if you’re alright but,” her eyes flickered down and up, “I think it’s obvious that you are.” Backtracking swiftly, she amended. “I’m guessing.” He might not be and presuming that he was, despite the easy way he’d moved at dinner, would make her a very bad… friend.

_We’re friends. Wow._

“I’m fine.” Shrugging off things was an art form Oliver had _down_. “The building was already under construction.”

She indicated her head at him. “Now it’s just under _more_ construction?”

Searching her face, he looked a little bemused. “Yeah.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I said exactly that to my sister when she asked.”

Mouth forming an _oh_, she simply nodded. “Okay.” Eyes narrowing without suspicion, she checked him out. _Not checked him out, checked him out. Just- never mind. He can’t hear my thoughts._ “I’m guessing that you need my ‘expertise’ again?” And she wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she hoped very much that that was the case. She could perform her IT duties with her eyes closed; these opportunities to step a toe over the line of the law were exciting. _That just makes me sound like I have no life._

_Ahem._

Moot point.

“Can’t I just come down here to see Felicity Smoak?” Watching her head tilt at him as she gave him her _uh huh_ expression, brought back the tiny smile - the one that had reappeared on his face as he’d listened her to babble on the way to floor 21 - and he reached a hand inside his jacket pocket. “But I do need your help.”

She brightened, curiosity stirring already. “I knew my days of being your computer geek weren’t coming to an end.”

The smile turned into this softer thing that make her insides flutter when he released a breathy sound. “Hah.” Bringing his hand out of his pocket, he handed over a security FOB. “So, a friend of mine is running a scavenger hunt,” something slid down her oesophagus, diming the little bubble of eagerness in her that he’d caused, “and there’s a case of Lafite Rothschild 1982 waiting at the end.”

_Ooh_. “I love red wine.”

She also loved the unusual system they had going here: he’d lie - covering himself _and_ her - and she’d help him knowing that he was lying. It was titillating. It was fun.

Or it _had_ been before they’d gone to dinner. Before he’d asked her to help him find Walter. Now it felt… _insulting_. Just a little bit.

“But in order to find it,” he carried on, unaware of her self-reflection, “I need to get through _this_.”

Over the desk, he presented the FOB and she took it. Willingly. “Hm.” Inserting it into her computer was an unconscious act; she wanted this. But she _didn’t_ want- “It’s pin protected.” Staring at the screen - seeing him move around the desk in her peripheral and ignoring his proximity - already running her code; ready and willing to be challenged again, she allowed her tone to alter into something shrewder. Dubious. “Challenge response goes back to a company called Blackhawk Squad Protection Group.”

So… he _knew_ that she knew that _he_ knew that she saw right through that… right?

“Yeah, my friend’s bodyguard set it up for him.” Then again, maybe not. “Personally, I think it’s cheating.” Speaking to her from behind her chair, his tone was playful, his voice hushed. Like he was trying to keep this secret, even as the spirited way he did it contradicted everything. Underneath the surface, this was important to him. “But, whatever; he’s done this before.”

And she felt herself moving before she could think about why. “Okay,” she twisted around with a ‘hold it there, buddy’ smile, at the same time that she rose out of her seat, “I’m not that gullible a-”

She hadn’t calculated for how close he was standing.

Her front - her chest - brushed against his torso as she stood and he sucked in a breath, moving back a little with her; but not fast enough or far enough for her face to _not _be inches from his when they stopped.

“-Person.” Breath poofing out of her, she almost stumbled back. “Um…”

_So close_.

This was different from before, when she’d woken him up on New Year’s Eve.

She could count the lashes on his eye lids as he blinked at the shift, hear his shallow exhale as her face levelled with his, if level meant a foot _down_. Still…

Really, _really_ close.

“U-uh,” fumbling through thoughts, noticing how he seemed just as startled as she was. _Get a grip_. “Look, this?” Faffing an arm behind her, she didn’t dare to take her eyes off his face. “I get the need for secrets,” she really did and decided to also ignore that he hadn’t moved back - not that there was any way to move back to, though he could just step to the side - and was, essentially, so much bigger and stronger than she was… because she _trusted_ him, “but it’s obvious that your _friend_ didn’t do this.” He shifted on the spot, it was barely any kind of reaction at all and he seemed so intent on what she was saying that it made her cheeks pink. “This is a military grade encryption.” The dim light had blown his pupils _right_ out. “A _cryptographic_ security protocol.” And it was difficult to sound authoritative with him standing so close, but somehow it came right out for once; no babbling. “I doubt any bodyguard would have that kind of access. Once you leave Black Ops, any personal ID is suspended and authority, revoked.” And she spoke slowly, quietly, so as to emphasise what this was really about. So as to not stutter. “I’m not an idiot.”

He didn’t blink and his words were sincere. “I never thought you were.”

“Good.” Lips pressing together, nerves getting the better of her as her eyes flickered to his ‘much broader than mine’ body. “Then do me the courtesy of not fabricating whatever story pops into your head, first.”

Mouth closing, his eyes flickered to the side-

“You don’t need to.” She murmured, face frank and gave him a teeny tiny shrug when his eyes flew back to her face. “Just ask.” For help. _You don’t have to tell me the truth, just don’t lie_.

Searching her eyes, his gaze eventually dropped to the floor; pensive.

“We _both_ know you’re lying.” A hand reached up to nudge her glasses, though they were straight. _This is a weirdly intense moment_. “It’s part of our…” His eyes lifted - and for some reason it looked more affective _because_ he was so still - with a brow arching, “_thing_.”

It looked like he was holding breath. “But?”

“No buts.” None whatsoever. “Just… no more lies.” _Please_. “They were pretty crappy.”

“Maybe that was intentional.” Mellow voiced, it sounded like a challenge; his last refuge.

She just looked at him, waiting.

Eyes so dark and so penetratingly on hers - _there’s that tingling again_, _butterflies_ \- he took a deep breath in before letting it out. Before clearing his throat. Before his gaze left her for some option _behind_ her. Before his fingers started fidgeting and she was so close to taking pity on how something so small looked so enormous for him to reach, when he spoke.

“It doesn’t belong to a friend.” Small, he sounded _small_.

Something inside her took root, something _good_. “…Alright.”

He licked his lips, voice a little rough with the sliver of truth he’d granted her. “But I need you to hack into it.”

Straight to the point. “I can do that.” She whispered.

The air shifted from heavy with the truth to light with… the truth. _Huh_. It made his eyes come back, lowering to her mouth; clearly taken aback by her smile and the way she tried to stem it by pulling in her lower lip. The way she didn’t press for more.

_Honesty_. It felt good.

And he started to nod; the way his chest deflated was a sign of relief. “Okay.”

Then he smiled back.

_Oof_. It had a physical presence that smile; she felt it everywhere…

And again, there it was. That ‘something else’ that made the air heavier between them, that made her chest tight, that made it burn without pain. That made such a simple, fleeting moment feel like so much more between then, _which is ridiculous, I mean… _

It could just be her feeling it, _that’s more than likely_. Yet there was something about the way he was looking at her now. A… tenderness.

Awe.

And his smile reached his eyes.

_I’m in trouble_. “I’ll have it done in a few hours.”

Something dangerously close to wonderment kept that smile present on his face, and the look in his eyes told her that he wasn’t really used to it. “_Wow_.” He mouthed- _gulp_. “What about your work?”

_Meh_. “I can do it blind folded.” _Not to blow my own trumpet._

Then something seemed to register in his mind and his brow tapered. “Why _haven’t_ you been promoted yet?”

If there was a question that she hadn’t expected it was that one. “Er… I don’t know.”

“Wait-” Breathing through his nose, he shook his head; contrite. “I didn’t mean to word it like that.”

Hand lifting, “it’s okay.” She smiled and even to her, it felt pitifully weak. “Well, we all have reasons to,” how honest is honest, “to hide.” _Oh, _that_ honest. Okay_.

He’d trusted her, even if it was just a little. _It’s called paying it forward_. _I think._

Appraising her anew, “Yeah,” he exhaled, and something settled on her.

He looked compassionate.

Then the lids of his eyes flickered, freeing her, _phew_. “Tell you what.” And did he have to talk like that? Like he was trying to caress her spine through sound alone-

_Wait_, _why is he talking like that?_

Had he ever talked to her like that _before_?

_He’s definitely looked at me like that before_, but the voice was new. “If you get through that by tonight…” the pause from him was odd because he didn’t look like he was forcing himself to continue; there was something almost _shy_ about his expression and the furtive way his gaze kept looking then dodging hers. “I’ll bring you a bottle of Lafite Rothschild 1982.”

Yes, he was delicious. Yes, he was the most attractive man she’d ever met. Yes, he oozed sex appeal and he was so mysterious, she had a very hard time to entertaining certain thoughts that could get him or her into trouble. But in this instance, he was like a little boy; reaching out for a hand to hold.

_I’m in **really** big trouble._

“Even without the scavenger hunt?”

“Even so.”

And part her did _not_ care, despite knowing she could lose this tomorrow morning. _It’s kind of freeing. _“It’s a deal.” Flustered, happily so - _expensive_ _free wine, yes!_ \- she was half-turned to her desk when she whirled back around, “but only if _you_-”

She poked him. _Poked_ him. In the chest. _He is rock hard-_ _that isn’t the point! Did I actually poke him?_ Not that it seemed to bother him. He actually swayed backward, as if she held that kind of power in the tip of her finger and he looked… charmed. Surprised again, but charmed.

“-take a load off and have a glass with me.” She smiled… then backpedalled, _fast_. “Unless you don’t like red wine.” Or don’t want to spend time with the weirdo in the IT department, a feeling she understood completely. “In which case,” she gave him a head shake and pained smile, “just ignore I said anything.”

Clearing her throat, _that could have gone better_, she turned back around, slid into her seat and got to work. _Could have gone worse too_.

She got to the count of 7 before Oliver spoke, quietly. Timidly.

“…Okay.”

It wasn’t an unhappy sound.

She was in so much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think?


	7. Blindsided

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes doing the right thing ends badly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND SO IT CHANGES.... takes place in 1.11

_There is no spoon._

Tell that to her stomach. “Dim sum for one _sounded_ like such a good idea at the time.” Food was her comfort; now it was her punishment. She was officially _outside_ of her comfort zone. “Why am I here, again?”

In Front of the Queen mansion.

Staring up at the place, huddled in her coat - she hadn’t changed in her split-second decision to hightail it to the grounds - it didn’t feel like it had at Christmas. Alive, alight and austere. “It is officially _freezing_ out here,” she muttered as she braved the flight of stairs leading to the double set front doors of the house in question. “I can’t feel my toes.” How February could be colder than January, was anybody’s guess. “This isn’t a good idea,” nose scrunching, she whispered to herself as she reached the top step, “why did I think it was a good idea?”

To confront Oliver’s mother head on.

_I can’t let her to be blind-sided, that’s why_. Whatever his reaction might be, Oliver absolutely take it to his mother. _I have to give her the benefit of the doubt_. Knowing that she would be staying at home for her daughter’s birthday party had made plan form and while she didn’t want to do this on such a day, she didn’t have a choice. _With hacking ability comes great responsibility_. Thus, a plan had formed. “I’ve got to be out of my mind.”

According to the finances coming out for this night, there had to be a full house in the mansion. _There’s no way a woman like Moira would stick with the teenagers; she’d retire to her bedroom… with wine or pills or earmuffs… something._

She reached for the doorknob.

* * *

“…Mrs Queen?”

She swallowed, even as there was no response.

_Such a nerd._ Calling out for a woman she’d spoken to all of _one_ time, in said woman’s home as she wandered the halls without permission. But how else was she supposed to find Oliver’s mother in this _maze_? “Mrs…” Slowly peeking around another corner, she held her breath. “Queen?”

It was empty of life with every door closed.

She sighed, taking timid steps forward. “What are the chances she can’t hear me?” Considering the louder than _loud_ music coming from the main hall downstairs was making the ground beneath her feet vibrate, Felicity wondered just how _far_ was far enough. _Even with booze_. “Better question; what are the chances she’s even here?”

So far, so _not_ good.

_Maybe I should just wait and tell Oliver_… without checking to make absolutely sure that she was right before making allegations - backed up by a _lot_ of evidence - that would potentially blow his relationship with his mother to kingdom come. Or turn it to garbage. _Maybe not_. “You’re already here.” She breathed as she gazed over the artistry on the walls. “Might as well try.”

Speaking of the cat shrieking and bin lid crashing going on downstairs, could ears thrum? _Is that what music is now?_ “God, my thoughts are old.” But it was a nice distraction as she walked an upper corridor of the mansion. _Helps with the fuzzies… which makes the twisting in my stomach sound like an ailment of the Care bears_.

Some random person downstairs - _even Thea Queen couldn’t possibly know that many people… right?_ \- who looked at _least_ five years too old for high school - _note to self; don’t tell Oliver_ \- had _deigned_ her a moment of his ‘flying high’ time, complete with splif and beer bottle to complete the image, and had pointed vaguely in the vicinity of the stairs when she’d tried to get a pinpoint on the locale of the Queen matriarch.

“I got a few flashbacks, I won’t lie- not that I ever took drugs.” How she could manage to stutter and babble when she was alone, was a conundrum in _her_self- _hah_. “I didn’t take-” _Wait_. “There was that one time… I mean, _define_ drugs exactly-”

“Miss Smoak?”

She stopped mid-step, turning abruptly and looking. So deep into her own thoughts she’d missed the door opening, two rooms behind her. _Embarrassing_.

But not nearly as embarrassing as all the things she’d potentially said in earshot of Oliver’s mother. “Mrs Queen!”

The woman in question quirked a brow but it didn’t cover her surprise and confusion at seeing Felicity. “What are you doing here?”

And there was a disquiet there that Felicity couldn’t place. Looking at her stood between the gap between door and wall, Mrs Queen still wore her suit; albeit with her blazer off, but her gold earring still twinkled.

“I’m…” she took a large step closer, “here to see you, actually.”

Maybe the unease was shared because something in the way Moira Queen paused, as if telling her that she was there to see her might be something she’d feared, made something deep inside of her – somewhere trapped between her ribs and soaking into her bones – tighten.

“Really.” But the moment was lost when she regained full composure. “I’m assuming this has something to do with Walter?”

Head tilting, lips pulling, Felicity made a ‘close, but no cigar sound’. “In part.”

The root of any fear she may have had of Moira Queen - beyond the fact that the woman was everything she wasn’t - was immediately understood. She didn’t know her. She had no idea who she was, how she’d react… whether she was a good person.

It would be so easy to assume that she was a good person, being Oliver’s mother. She wanted to.

But there was something in her face - something a little too close to cold calculous and a dash of fear - that hardened her otherwise golden expression. “I see.” Then she stepped aside, muddying the waters by opening her door fully. “Please come in?”

Why, because there were so many people in the house who cared what they talked about? _Okay, I’ll give_. Either Moira Queen was paranoid or… or she was being threatened.

Felicity smiled a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Heels muffled by the floor, Felicity stepped past her – immediately smelling that expensive perfume and a shot of something that made her just a little nostalgic for her own mother, which was odd; did all mothers have that power – and it took everything she had not to react to the sheer opulence of the bedroom.

The four-poster bed.

The lit fire filling the room with warmth.

The doorway that definitely lead to an en-suite bathroom.

_The colour could use a little work, but-_

“I’d like to make this quick.” Turning, Felicity watched Moira’s hands join together at her front; as if she’d just finished rubbing cream into them. “I promised my daughter that I’d re-join the party downstairs before midnight.”

_Said no daughter ever_. The _last_ thing Thea Queen wanted was to have her mum obliterate her ‘cool’ by chaperoning her 18th birthday bash. The fact that she’d said it told Felicity something intriguing.

_Am I making her nervous?_ Impossible. “I understand.” Nodding, watching, wondering; internally assessing every-freaking thing now about the woman before her and not finding anything that didn’t assuage the niggling feeling inside her stomach, she started. “This is about…” _deep breath in, rip off the band aid_. “Tempest.”

Because she’d been looking the woman in the eye, she saw how the word made her still. It was eerily similar to the way Oliver stilled. _Except the way he looks at me when he does that makes every cell in my body heat up_, she could admit.

Mrs Queen’s ‘stillness’ made her blood cool right down. “Walter told you about that.”

“I told _him_.” Felicity corrected her and-

Again, that look. The one in QC’s CEO office; the one that made goosebumps rise on Felicity’s arms. “I beg your pardon?”

“Last year,” don’t stop now, “Mr Steel tasked me with tracking a missing $2.6 million that I discovered was used to set up a ghost LLC by the name Tempest.”

Something in Moira’s shoulders relaxed.

That small movement made Felicity sick. Moira had relaxed, because she thought that Felicity had only uncovered the surface answer; that one of Moira’s attempted trial runs for a subsidiary had fallen through.

And not that she’d hidden a horrible truth.

It meant every bad thing. _Not necessarily_. It meant that she’d known all along that Walter had been- _maybe not. Maybe I’m missing something, maybe I’m wrong_.

“We talked about that.” Moira told her, not seeing the unease in Felicity - the silent breath that skittered out of her - as she began to move, walking over to her vanity table. “Me and Walter.”

_And not you_, didn’t need to be added. The tone said enough. This wasn’t Felicity’s business.

But that no longer mattered. Walter did. _Does_. “I know.” Moira’s head near-whipped back to her – her perfect hair unmoving – in shock. “He trusted me.” She added.

This time, Moira’s shoulders didn’t slump.

“He also asked me to continue digging.” She allowed a pause Mrs Queen to process what that meant, because her next words would hurt. “I found the warehouse for him. I saw what was inside.” No need to tell her that it wasn’t a first-hand account, it was still the truth…

And if Mrs Queen turned any paler, Felicity would absolutely have to call a doctor. “You did.” Her voice shook.

Lips pressed together; Felicity nodded at her; letting her own expression reveal to such a regal face that there was more she knew.

A deep breath seemed to leave her like a sigh and Mrs Queen turned her back to Felicity, reaching for the decanter on the table to her side. _Does every room have one of those? Medicinal or just… stress?_ “And did you tell anyone about this?”

On ‘did’, Mrs Queen’s throat closed. On ‘anyone’ her voice flat out quaked.

_Urp._ What was the protocol for this? “Just Walter.” _She must be so afraid_. “Whose personal affects I know were given back to _you_ the day after he was kidnapped.” It came out in a rush, but she said it.

_I did it._

Mrs Queen on the other hand… she simply poured herself a drink.

“I don’t know why you didn’t tell the police. Or your children.” She shook her head, baffled. Watching the woman lift her glass and take a sip. “I figured you had to have a reason.”

“And somehow,” though her voice wasn’t loud, the sound of it still made Felicity flinch, “you feel that it’s your place to shine a light on what I clearly didn’t want known.”

“I care about Walter.” Half turned to her as she was, Felicity saw that touch her; saw her head lower. “But I also know that whoever sabotaged the Queen’s Gambit,” this time Moira looked at her, side-on and it was a heavy, weary and wary look, “would have to be someone… pretty scary.” Hands fidgeting together, Felicity gave a half-shrug. “I thought that someone might be threatening you.”

“Would it matter if they were?” Moira said to her glass.

Bafflement made Felicity frown. “Of course, it matters.” It changes everything. “If you’re being threatened, then-”

“Then what, Miss Smoak?” Finally facing her fully, the full might of that Queen stare was levelled on her. “What do you propose that I haven’t tried to do already, hm?”

Mouth open like a fish and in great danger of looking as simple - as naive - as she was beginning to feel, she quickly closed it. “I-I… I don’t know.” She really didn’t. “But you can’t keep this from your son.”

There was a that regal brow lift. “Oh, I can’t?”

Something like anger licked the inside of her stomach. “He deserves to know that the truth.” Felicity took a step forward, uncaring of how Moira Queen saw her. “He deserves to know that those five years he was shipwrecked, weren’t an accident. That the people he lost, died because someone very literally wanted to kill and did kill his father.”

Like the splintering of a minds eye, a sharpness in Moira’s gaze looked more like the sharpening of knives. “How dare you bring up my husband-”

“You _have_ a husband.” _What’s wrong with her?_ Why wasn’t she jumping at the chance to catch the son of a bitch her wrecked her family? _What am I missing? _“Did you…” searching those cold eyes, a new thought made dread dawn upon her. “Did _you_ have Walter kidnapped?”

…Because he’d gotten too close to the truth?

Meeting those ice blue eyes head on, she saw the answer for herself. “Don’t presume to know what you can’t understand-”

“Don’t presume _you_ understand the nadirs of my intelligence.” She wasn’t insulted; she was appalled. This was going the exact opposite way she’d wanted it to. The way that might hurt Oliver the most. “I understand a great deal.” Pretty well highlighted in the way she’d managed to put two and two together to get four and in every word that she’d spoken since. _I will not be made to feel like an idiot for thinking this matters._ Or small. “But I came here to give you a chance to explain your side of the story.”

“I don’t need to explain a _thing_ to you.”

“To Oliver.” It came out quickly because that lick of heat was coating her oesophagus, making her feel a little sick. Making her tremble. “To the person affected the most by this; he, at the very least, deserves to know.”

A canniness made the hardness on Moira’s face slowly fade, revealing just a hint of the worry beneath. And the brazenness. “I didn’t realise how close you are to my son.”

“We’re not.” _Deny everything_; implausible deniability. She didn’t know why she was doing this, but her gut told her to say those words. To protect the thing developing between herself and Oliver, the trust. “But if I were in his position, I’d wonder why my mother would ever keep me in the dark like that.”

“Everything I do is for my children.”

The finality in her tone that made Felicity uncomfortable. “Even sacrificing your second marriage?”

Eyes locked, Felicity could still see the moment Mrs Queen wanted to slap her. It was somewhere between the jaw tick and the swallow of what was probably very old, very strong bourbon. “My marriage is none of your concern. Walter-” Faltering, gaze falling at the spike of emotion catching her unawares, Mrs Queen let a breath rattle out of her. “I have to believe I will see him again.”

“What if,” and this was the tricky part, “I could help you there?”

Suspicion made Moira’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“Just look at what I found.” The information speaks for itself. “Put me to work, I could find Walter for-”

“That is out of the question.” Putting her glass down, Moira moved back to her vanity desk. “Really, if I wanted help, you wouldn’t be the first or the last person I’d go to.” Giving her the kind of look that could peel paint off walls, Moira tore it down Felicity’s form. “Simpering at Walter’s heels, staring at my son- you think I don’t see what you’re trying to do?” Humour - the type that was dour and cruel, as if she simultaneously pitied and hated her - twisted Moira’s expression into something so manipulative, Felicity could only watch it and listen to her. Stunned. “There are easier ways to be promoted, my dear.” The insinuation – the fact that it hadn’t once entered Felicity’s mind – struck her dumb. Expression level, Moira gave her a few precious seconds to read between the lines. “But you will never be part of the Queen family.”

Callous. Oliver’s mother was callous.

Feeling as if the air had been forcibly sucked out of her, Felicity could only stare at her. “That’s what you think I’m trying to do?”

“I think I don’t care, as long as my son remains unhurt.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your son.”

“And yet you want to needlessly expose him to this ‘scary’ individual you think might be the sole reason behind my silence.”

That stopped her... and it wasn’t because she hasn’t thought about that. She’d thought about it a lot. Thought about all the ways this could backfire on Oliver and sister. Thought about the faceless person or persons who might be making life a nightmare for the Queen matriarch

Then she thought about the way he kept coming to her for information, bringing laptops and security fobs and arrows amongst other things for her to analyse for whatever reason.

She thought about _why_ Oliver might be doing that. 

“I’ve said everything I came to say.” She wouldn’t waste her time telling Mrs Queen that she’d done this to keep her being taken by surprise. “Please… make the right choice by your children.”

In her few years, she never thought she’d be here; staring down her boss, asking her to reveal that the shipwreck that took her children’s father away and stranded her eldest on an island in the south china seas for five years, wasn’t an accident. _I’m so fired_. Tomorrow morning a missive will be in her in-tray, asking for her voluntary dismissal; complete with severance-

“I already have.” Moira quietly told her.

Nodding, _right_, mouth zipped, Felicity stepped back towards the door. “I’ll just be…” Gesturing behind her she turned, closing the distance between her and the exit, her hand reaching for the knob-

“Miss Smoak?”

She paused, twisting back to look at Oliver’s mother.

Just in time to see the lamp come down across her forehead-

**PAIN.**

The side of her face _exploded_.

World fading to black, she fell.

Blinded-sided.

__

* * *

Heart racing, breathing fast; Moira pulled up, staggering back from the body on the floor. “No.”

_I can’t._

Lying on her side, glasses askew, pony-tailed hair spread behind her head like a partial halo… the wound on Felicity Smoak’s forehead and the blood trickling down her face from it, made an acidic, metallic taste coat the lining of Moira’s throat, forcing her to gag.

She couldn’t hit her again. She couldn’t kill an innocent woman.

Breathing deeply, shaken, she continued to stare down at the unconscious woman. _Innocent or not, she’s a danger to my children_. She had to be stopped.

Silenced.

_Richard._

Dropping the lamp, she stumbled back towards her bed where her phone rested on the toy-boy at its side.

“Richard?” She said after dialling, knowing how desperate she sounded. “Felicity Smoak is here… she came to the mansion, talking about Tempest and the Queen’s Gambit. She’s the one who told Walter about it- I don’t know how she knew… wait, no she’s been looking into this for Walter, she’s works in the IT department at Queen Consolidated… I hit her, she’s unconscious- I was thinking about my _children_! Look, she knows about the Gambit, Richard. She knows Walter is alive and lord knows what else. I just reacted, she…” Phone to her ear, she peered back over her shoulder, feeling the wetness in her eyes form as tears when she looked at what she’d been driven to do. “I don’t know. She may know more than she told me. She said she hadn’t told anyone.” Sniffing, breathing in and standing up, Moira Queen regained a semblance of calm: eyes on the girl on the floor. “I’ve considered that already. Since you told me that she was Walter’s last contact before he was taken, I thought something like this might happen.” Or rather, that she’d have to act to take the naïve Miss Smoak out of the picture. “You want to come here, now? My daughter’s party… be discreet. The noise will cover you. You know where to take her, don’t you? Of course. Contact me when she wakes; I need to be here for my daughter right now. She caught me with Malcolm… yes, I’m aware of the irony, thank you. Take care of this, please. I’ll see you soon.”

Cancelling the call, she allowed the phone to drop onto her covers.

Every breath she took in made her chest tremble, but still… her suit looked pressed to perfection and a quick glance in her mirror told her no one would know a thing.

No one would guess that she’d hit a woman over the head with her lamp.

Breathing out, clearing her throat; she straightened out her spine… then she walked towards the door.

Stepping over Felicity Smoak along the way.

Not once did she look back.

_I can’t._

Masks take work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think; the game just changed. Review, review, review!!


	8. Something's Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where is she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW, IT'S BEEN SO LOOOOOONG!  
I'll just say that 2019 hasn't been the kindest year for me and leave it at that. I'm sorry I made you all wait, especially after such a cliffhanger. I hope I can make up for it :)

“You hit her too hard.”

Frayed at the edges, his typical flat manner made her already cracked demeanour threaten to split in two and that wasn’t something she was accustomed to. “Forgive me,” the dryness of her tone was belied by the quiver in her voice; another thing she loathed, “I’ve never knocked someone unconscious before.”

“No, you always had me do that.” His pause made her stomach swoop and it shouldn’t have. “And more.”

Arm hugging herself - years past feeling nausea for this kind of thing and not enjoying the way her stomach refused to unclench - her free hand clasped just under her chin. “When will she wake up?”

The person responsible for her now unravelling mentality, after years of keeping a straight spine.

“_If_.” Shaking his head once, “If she wakes up.” Richard peered up into Felicity Smoak’s face from where he crouched on his haunches before her unconscious form. “Not for several hours.” Hand reaching, he lifted a piece of fallen hair off the wound on her forehead. “She’ll have a concussion. It’ll make her more malleable, but I won’t be able to tell if there’s lasting damage until then.”

Internal damage. “That would be _one_ problem off our list.”

“It would mean you’d murdered her.” Brow arched; Richard looked over his shoulder at her. “Even for you, that’s cold.”

Her already sick stomach, twisted; her widened eyes narrowing. “It was an accident.”

“Call it what you want.” Standing, her long-time friend shucked his loose hair behind an ear and walked over to the duffle bag set on the sole table in the room. The room within the abandoned warehouse he’d reconnoitred years ago for… similar circumstances to this. “I might be the one to get of the rid of the evidence, but that doesn’t make you any less responsible.”

Long since used to his manner – _as impersonal as they come_ – it was less his words than the fact that he’d felt the need to express them at all this time that made her unable to respond as she looked at Miss Smoak’s unconscious form on the chair they’d dropped her into.

_I hit her too hard._ Part of her was still stunned that she’d hit her at all. That she’d chosen to. That she’d-

Given into fear.

_It hadn’t felt like a choice at the time._ Not that Richard needed to hear that to know it. “I can’t force her to wake up; she isn’t sleeping.” The cling of a pair of cuffs made Moira flinch, made her blink, made her look at him again. “From what you told me,” he lifted them, twirling them on a finger at the side of his head as his other hand continued to rummage through the bag, “these should be enough to hold her.” The hand dropped, joining his twin in the bag. “You might want to spend a few hours with your family while we wait.”

“I just _left_ my family at the hospital.” Where her daughter hadn’t wanted her.

Her daughter had been in a car wreck, but she hadn’t wanted her mother anywhere near her. _She hates me for something I can’t- won’t ever be able explain to her_. It was, perhaps, for the best. _Everything will be alright_. She just needed to focus.

Back still turned, Richard let out a sigh. “Then get some sleep.” Broad shoulders - taut under a long-sleeved muscle shirt - flexed as he rolled them. “I’ll keep watch.”

After 27 years of less than scrupulous work if not agenda, Moira had no doubts he’d be able to do just that… that and everything that came with watching over a-

Victim?

Hostage?

_Willing associate_. Felicity Smoak had done this to herself. Stepping into shoes too big for her feet, playing a dangerous game; _too big for her breeches in a wheelhouse where the rules of the working class don’t apply_. A woman as smart as she, should have thought it through before presenting herself to the table where she wasn’t the centrepiece.

She was the scraps.

Now Richard Clyde had her. He and Robert Queen had been close friends since their teenage years and even after her first husband was embroiled in Malcolm’s fanatical plans, they’d remained close.

Robert’s death had led Moira back to him, remembering the stories her first husband used to regale her with… or rather, what he’d left _out_ of them.

She’d learned over the years how and when to know her husband was omitting. Through all the love Robert had shown her, he’d also granted her the same amount of disrespect and had simply called that love too. Perhaps he’d really thought that.

She’d never know.

Exhaling, “alright.” Moira still couldn’t pull her eyes away from the young woman she’d incapacitated. “Though I don’t know how I’m supposed to rest after this.”

“Accept it and move on.”

Brow quirking, she sent her friend a look of disdain. “Now who’s being cold?”

“I know it’s been a while Moira, but it isn’t as if you haven’t done anything like this before.”

Resisting the urge to eye roll since she’d refrained from doing so for years - since it reminded her of her stalwart daughter - Moira refused to rise to the not-so-hidden challenge. “I can honestly say I’ve never hit a person with a lamp before.”

“But you’ve still done unspeakable things for your children.” He let the fact linger before adding. “Yet you behave like _this_.” The words were quick, brief and brutal. Accurate. “Every time.” And coming from a man who normally had _all_ the patience to spare. “You ask me for _assistance_,” he breathed out, finally turning his head in her direction from what she saw out of the corner of her eye, “then you feel guilt. You apologise and agonise and repeat over and over that your choices are no choice at all, when we both know that’s not true.”

She’d made her choice years ago. In the broad scheme of things, it hadn’t been a difficult one to make.

Eyes locked in contest – there was no contest; he was right – she frowned at him, unsure with him for the first time in a long time. “Why are you telling me what I already know?”

Do you?” Gesturing to the unconscious elephant in the room, Richard leaned back against the table. “I think you need to be reminded of why you’re doing any of this.”

_‘Do I need to remind you of why you’re doing this’_, he’d asked her once; years ago. When he’d tied up the man who would have gone running to Malcolm Merlyn to a chair, like the one Miss Smoak now slept on. When he’d interrogated him. When she’d turned away after watching him extract his pistol from the back of pants because _loose ends_ and _means must_ \- she discovered - were ways of getting her killed.

When she did nothing to stop him pulling the trigger.

When she chose her family over another’s.

When she decided to never look back.

“I remember just fine,” it was a statement, “Richard.” A different kind of reminder.

One he didn’t seem to think was enough. “You need to be prepared for how this might go.”

“I’m always prepared.”

“No,” he shook his head once, “you’re prepared for _me_ to do the dirty work. This is different.” And it was. It was very different to the time they’d caught the mole in the unit of people she’d hired to secretly excavate the Gambit. “From my trace,” he started, hands sliding into the pockets of his cargo pants before jutting his chin towards the woman in the chair, “from what you told me about her? She isn’t another one of Malcolm’s spies.”

Her own eyes locked back onto the woman she knew would haunt her dreams in the days to come.

“…She might be.”

“And I’ll find that out too,” he nodded, “but if she isn’t…” He let the sentence trail off, waiting for her to make internal connections.

She already had. “Your point?”

“Can you live with the murder of an innocent woman?”

In the quiet, the weight of their sins being what they already were, they didn’t - couldn’t - look at each other. Just like the last time…

The time before.

“You’d be surprised by what I’m capable of living with.” And in her voice, there was no shake nor sign of weakness to be found.

“No Moira,” he answered quietly; still looking at the young women he’d be ‘talking to’ later, “I really wouldn’t be.”

* * *

In record time he’d made it to her front door, and he was smiling as he-

He paused mid-step.

He was smiling. _Smiling_. Without thinking about it. Without forcing it. Without _realising_. Effortless. Smiling.

Again.

It was- he didn’t know what it was. He hadn’t _planned_ to smile. But he always seemed to with…

He took it in; where he was, how _it_ felt. Feels. To smile. The foreign lightness in his chest - light as rainfall - and the weight he hadn’t realised was present on his shoulders, now absent; a fluttering at his diaphragm, tightening and loosening muscles he’d conditioned for combat alone, somehow _adding_ to the weightlessness that the pleasure of a simple, natural smile could bring.

The _good_ felt something like fear.

Air sucking in through his teeth, he took a step back-

His smile pulled in, ebbing away like the turn of a tide. Like it can be taken from him as swiftly and inexplicably as it had appeared; a void - a disconnect of nothingness and a _burn_ \- filling in its wake. Hot coals dropping one-

By.

One.

_Down_.

He wanted it back.

He wanted it to stay away.

Fingers twitching and fidgeting, strangely absorbed by something so inconsequential - it didn’t _feel_ inconsequential - a furrow burrowed a home between his brows, pulling at his skin.

It didn’t feel right - _good_ \- the ground beneath his feet unstable, to retreat from her home.

From her.

Muddled, he just stood there. Expressionless.

Like so many other things, the smile wasn’t an act. Wasn’t a trick. A cool façade, a cruel joke, a calculated response. It didn’t press on his chest the way most things did. Didn’t pressure him to act, didn’t grate on his nerves, didn’t bring the-

Guilt.

Didn’t hurt him; didn’t cut shards into the place behind his eyes, didn’t cut into the place between his T2 and 3 vertebrae, didn’t slice up between his rib cage.

Everything had tautened, just as it had relaxed. But it didn’t feel- it wasn’t _bad_. It was simply… different. Unrecognisable.

And then it _wasn’t_.

It didn’t hit him like a truck. It doesn’t slap him across the face, doesn’t drop into his empty stomach, doesn’t bowl him over. It’s a swift lick of tension in his chest, a _roll_ deep inside, a swooping sensation, a warmth in his chest. Hands loose by his side, palms tingling, he could only breathe because he hasn’t felt anything like it in so long.

Anticipation. Something that, this time, had nothing to do with preparing for a fight.

Startled, he stared at the front door without seeing it.

_“But only if you,” feather soft and stunning pleasant, her finger prodded him but her softness - the very real light in her shy smile - made him sway with it helplessly, “take a load off and have a glass with me.”_

Take a load off.

Have a glass of wine.

_‘With me.’_

He wanted to do that.

He wanted to do that, and he didn’t feel guilty about that want.

He wanted to do that, and he _shouldn’t_. Not with her. Especially not with her.

Yet it had stuck with him yesterday after seeing her, and he knew that was why he was here now early on a Saturday morning, knowing she was probably halfway ready for a day at QC - she chose to work on Saturdays and he guessed that the reason was monetary; she had no family here to fall back on - because… because Felicity Smoak _unguarded_ was an opportunity too intriguing to miss. It shouldn’t be intriguing.

He was there for all the wrong reasons.

This was for Walter. They’d agreed; he was here to ask for what she’d discovered about Walter; to do that, he needed her to feel secure. _This isn’t the time._

Not for wine.

All he knew was that, just like the first time in her office - like every time _since_ \- he was smiling. Except this time, she hadn’t done a thing. Hadn’t threaded words together the way she did her fingers when she was nervous, hadn’t tapped away; her thoughts very much on her face and in her eyes, hadn’t voiced what she failed to hide, hadn’t seen right through him and thought things that he’d stored inside a box to be locked up tight forever.

Just the thought of seeing her- it made him smile. And he had no idea what to do with that.

_Should_ he do something about that?

Not so-deep inside as he’d prefer, a very male _something_ \- a thing abandoned and starved; a thing that always threatened to rise whenever Felicity stood before him, a thing his shame had been partially victorious in infecting with its self-hate and stamping down - stirred. Forgiving and hoping and craving, offering insight spoken in foreign tongues.

He smiled all the time. It never meant a thing beneath his objectives. Just like it didn’t with his family. With Tommy, with-

_Laurel_.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

_“Ah, yes. The male ‘head nod and grunt’.”_

Smile.

_-There was just something so plainly real about her, so provokingly honest. “Lots of,” her hand lifted, fingers forming a claw, “grr.” And he was more than a little helpless against such an adorable front. Then she pantomimed a masculine tone, eyes emphatic and he couldn’t tear his own away; enthralled, engaged, bemused. “Dude. We are _men_. Manly men-” _

It was impossible _not_ to smile.

_“-hey Oliver?” He was faster than this, than her; her sublime way of preparing for a reaction, of reacting to him. Still, he smiled. Smiled like he couldn’t help himself - smiled in a way he hadn’t since he was a teenager, smiled without thinking about it - smiled before he could hide it and knew exactly what would happen as he saw her phone quickly lift and didn’t- _couldn’t _stop smiling._

_Didn’t want to._

_“Caught.” _

He’d smiled and it had felt good.

_And he watched her look at the picture she’d taken; her face, an amalgamation of impossibilities and every landing he could fathom. “You should smile more Oliver.”_

Something so completely outside of his control.

It... scared him. He’d never wanted to _continue_ feeling something that scared him before. That didn’t make sense to him-

(except it did. It _did_ in the place inside of him - covered in soft pictures and half-forgotten sounds and other things; of Thea’s giggles, his real smile, his father’s voice, the smell of Raisa’s cooking - a hollowed out area of softness and ease, wrapped tight against the cragged steel and frozen harshness of him. Against the black, broken pikes attempting to pierce the tiny bundle of light, but never reaching. _It_ knew.)

-For once, the truth was the easiest thing in the world to admit. He’d smiled because of her. And he didn’t duck to avoid it, didn’t try to escape or run away. He was still stood outside her door.

Confused.

With no answers available, fingers curling into a gentle fist, he raised it to knock-

Then hesitated.

_Then_ he tentatively made sure the collar of his leather jacket was straight and crease free, made sure the sides of his hair hadn’t been spiked out by his helmet, made sure his jean pants weren’t tucked into the back of his boots, made sure to _breathe_-

He came to his second stop in as many minutes.

_What am I doing?_

It was somewhere between Slade’s voice promising misery and Laurel’s statement of fact-

_“I don’t exactly see you being master of the universe.”_

-That made him clear his throat, despite the fluttering beneath his ribs. Another not-unpleasant sensation and it started and ended with-

_“I ah,” she coughed, and his eyes slid cautiously to her, “I just wanted to see if you were okay. Your bodyguard,” she gestured with both hands - they were clasped together - towards the closed door, but he didn’t follow their direction; he just looked at the _blue_, “let me in. Hope you don’t mind.”_

-Her.

_Concentrate_. The idea that he wasn't concentrating, thinking, aware, made him frown. Clearing his throat, he knocked on the door. Lightly.

And waited…

He knocked again when there was no response, _harder_. “Felicity?” It was redundant; if she hadn’t opened the door by then, she wasn’t home. “Felicity!” And if he called out any louder, he’d attract attention.

Maybe she was already at work.

He breathed out, nodding to himself. “Okay.”

* * *

She wasn’t in her office.

He stared into the emptiness of it, as if waiting long enough would make her appear. There was no issue, she just… wasn’t there.

Nothing was wrong.

_Okay._

He’d just look elsewhere.

* * *

…The floor’s kitchen area. The canteen. His mother’s office (and his mother’s office cupboard). The coffee shop around the corner. The garage.

She wasn’t anywhere.

_There’s no problem. _

Nothing was wrong.

Leaning on his elbows over the counter of the receptionist’s desk on the first floor, he wore another face: the smile he’d perfected during his four-year sprint to get laid between the four colleges he’d fled to once upon a time as he murmured. “Morning Nancy.” The phonetic slide into self-satisfaction, pausing just short of smugness and looking directly into Nancy’s hopelessly stunned eyes, he rinse-repeated an old song and it felt something like nostalgia. Nostalgia had never been a safe place for his memories to rest. “Can you help me?” Tilting his head, affecting a whisper-murmur with a slight flicker of the eye, as if to repel eavesdroppers, that he knew made the recipient feel like he was giving them his undivided attention - like they were the only two people in the world - because it was least they deserved for how he manipulated each and every one of them. The same way he’d used his charms on Laurel. On Sara. “I’m looking for Felicity Smoak-” And she’s somewhere in the building. She’s fixing someone else’s problems. That’s all she seemed to do; fix other people’s problems and he absently wondered when the last time was that someone fixed one of hers. “Is she here?” Eyes flickering down to ‘Nancy’s’ keyboard, it was a prompt without rudeness for her to get typing _now_ \- because she was staring at him instead of moving, thinking, understanding and how could she when she couldn’t _see_ him - even though he knew that no one could type as fast or as proficiently as the woman whose voice kept speaking in his head. _Type_._ Now_. “She said she’d help me with my computer and I just,” _smile_; it would make her think about his mouth and not the question if she were ever asked, “I can’t find her anywhere.”

Anywhere.

Felicity was an introvert. He’d assumed the reason why was worthy enough to keep such a stunning personality hidden from the light of day the way she had. It was a question for another time, another day. But she was also a creature if habit, and it only occurred to him now that it might be dangerous for her to be such. And there was every possibility that he was reading too much into being unable to find her. However, unpredictable people were harder to track. But if the predictable become _unpredictable_, it usually meant that there was a problem.

“Y-yes!” Flustered and absolutely eating up the attention of his eyes, the receptionist refused to look away from him as she typed and if he saw her hitting backspace _one_ more time- “Yes, Mr Queen. Erm, Felisity-”

“Felicity.” Intense happiness. “Like the adjective.”

“Right. And, Smoke-”

“No, Smoak. S.M.O.A.K.”

Lips pursing, she blinked. “U-um, Smaok- _Smoak_.” Her lashes fluttered. “It’ll just take a minute.” And she smiled up at him as she searched, mauve lipstick painted perfectly on her mouth.

It wasn’t red. Or pink. And her mouth wasn’t forming an _oh_. There was no red pen.

He... didn’t care.

What he did care about was that if he had to watch Nancy erase one more error in favour of staring at his lips - sometimes his mask backfired - he was going to walk around the desk and pull the keyboard out from under her fingers. “She, er…” There was a frown in her voice and on her face and it was only his need for answers that stopped the smile on his face from slipping down as his worry rose. “She hasn’t signed in today.” The words froze in his chest, smarting against the way she hummed after the fact; a sound that told him just how little Nancy and the rest of QC’s inhabitants cared. “Oh.” Shrugging as she looked at her screen, her head moved to see him again. “Well, I-”

He was already walking away.

Apprehension.

The kernel of foreboding in his stomach didn’t fit. She wasn’t at work; it didn’t necessarily mean- _nothing_ _is wrong_. She just wasn’t there.

So why did he feel like he needed to be running somewhere?

His phone ringing saved him from answering a different kind of call; one served with a level amount of adrenaline and a fluctuating cocktail of neurotransmitters just begging to be vented. “Hello?”

_“Mr Queen, this is Starling General. I’m Doctor Forest. Your sister will be ready to sign her release papers inside of an hour.”_

Immediately derailed, something inside him seemed to deflate. That same something from before - that had had made him _anticipate,_ made him _apprehensive_ \- as he saw his breath in the morning air, as he watched the traffic from where he stood outside of QC. “An hour?”

_“She took a bit of knock, but she’s fine. She’s coming out of a scan as we speak and I’m aware that she’s of age now, but I thought it prudent to call a family member.”_

“Right… thank you.” Distracted. He was distracted. He shouldn’t be, couldn’t be. Not even now. “I’ll be there.”

Because there was nothing wrong. Felicity was fine. He was overcharged from a fleeting thought - an impossible promise of wine, champagne bubble laughter, honest blue eyes and a wit that made his brain short circuit - and the possibility of its absence.

It didn’t make him any less thrown by and _guilty_ of the reluctance that surfaced as he cut the call. Going to the hospital meant he couldn’t go to Felicity and ask her about Walter. Now. Couldn’t question what she knew that had made her hide inside his mother’s office. Immediately. Couldn’t investigate what it was about her that made him-

Made him _feel._ Something. Something that wasn’t nothing, that wasn't painful like… everything else. _Everyone_ else.

But Thea needed him.

He was overthinking it. Felicity had… what? Taken the day off? She could have ignored his knock, or maybe... maybe she had a boyfriend. He couldn’t just presume about her; despite the facts he’d gathered. Did she have someone? Someone she cherished. The lucky guy she’d skip work for.

Keys heavy - tight - in his grasp, he turned on the ignition for his motorcycle-

“She could be sick.” _Raisa made soup_. He could bring some later, after dropping off Thea. As a pretence. Or... not, because friends do that, right? _Then_ he could talk to her about Walter and his mother, or just… talk in general. Because he wanted to. He wanted _her_ to want to too.

He wanted to take off the hood.

* * *

“What’s going on?”

“In the event of a vehicular accident,” the officer _not_ currently cuffing his baby sister told him, and the way Thea had gone into their hold without a fight was the only thing preventing Oliver from being the real threat in the room, “the doctor is required to report the result of the driver’s toxicology screen.” Unforgiving eyes moved behind him to his sister. “Miss Queen tested positive for a narcotic called Vertigo.”

On ‘narcotic’, he was already turning, already searching for an alternative answer-

But Thea’s face told him everything he needed to know.

Eyes tapering - disbelief, frustration and displeasure coating his voice - his expression twisted and this time, it wasn’t a mask. “The drug they’re using in the Glades?” As if he hoped she’d tell him differently.

As if he’d hoped she’d say that, no; she _hadn’t_ copied his poorly chosen trick with his motorcycle. No, she wasn’t still searching for that non-existent high. No, the girl he remembered wearing pigtails – the girl still at school – wasn’t desperately still trying to be something she wasn’t.

Him, aged 21.

But the way her eyes begged him to understand her poor, dangerous choices left him stuck for words as the officers pulled her down the hospital corridor. He followed without thinking.

Vertigo. She’d taken Vertigo. The most dangerous, prolific drug being chased unsuccessfully throughout the city by a section of Starling City’s SCPD and his now 18-year-old sister had decided her birthday couldn’t end without trying to kill herself, because that’s what it was. A cry for help, sure. A scream into the night, of course. A bid for attention, absolutely. But they were Queens. They didn’t run half-empty. When they wanted to do a thing, they go right ahead and jump in; both feet in the deep end. No half measures. Consequences be damned.

Without the hood, he was an empty shell - even now - waiting to be filled, relying on half-felt memories, by times gone by. But she wasn't him and he had no idea how he was supposed to fathom a Thea Queen who could risk her own life like that, on a _whim_?

Looking at her as the elevator descended – at the plea in her eyes, the bid for his affection instead of his judgement, the apology there and the shame – it was like looking in a mirror of what could have been. Except at her age, there’d have been no shame from him. No plea for affection. His mother would have given it to him unearned, uncaring of the disregard he'd felt for himself and for... for everything.

But she wasn’t him. She was _better_. She’d always be better.

Not… this.

Reaching past his own feelings, he offered her a wan smile. He’d been here before too and he'd be damned if she was ever here again.

Even if, when he searched for an answer as to how, he came up empty.

* * *

“I’d ask what’s up,” John started, nodding absently in Oliver’s peripheral at the way he was beating the ever-loving hell out of a training dummy, “but, er…” his lips pressed together when a resounding _crack_ pierced the air after a heavy roundhouse. “I don’t want to.”

Spitting sweat, “wise decision,” another particularly hard hit made straw and wood rattle satisfactorily as Oliver stepped back.

And then he hit it again. Hit it to end the fight in his head. Hit it so cleanly, so fiercely that he could now watch as the foam-insulated fake human _tore;_ as it swerved to the side, split in two at the shoulder and partially fell backwards.

It didn’t make him feel better.

Panting, “that was its last straw.” Pun not intended-

_“It was fine. The grabby thing, not the falling on top of you ‘thing’- not that that was a problem, just not the _ _fine_ _ I was referring to- not it _ _was_ _ fine though! I mean it was! You’re fine, every inch of-” Forcing her lips to shush with a _ _grunt_ _, he watched her eyes closed on a grimace and her head tilt back._

Blinking back the memory - the sound, the _feeling_, that he’d said exactly what _she_ would, the fact that the last thing that should have made him think about Felicity Smoak had been the first - Oliver pulled away from the area, already yanking off the hand wraps he wore.

Confused. On edge... something else.

“You just made a joke.” Hearing John sigh – preparing - he saw him settle against the table behind him. “Alright, I’ll risk it.” And he looked him in the eye the way he always did. “What’s wrong?”

He gave a sardonic head tilt. “You mean, other than my little sister being arrested for taking a drug that could have gotten her, or someone else, killed?”

“If there's something else besides that, yeah.”

Hands lifting, voice a near-whisper; the anger in him felt so much more satisfying than the sheer emptiness of feeling so inept. “What else needs to be said?”

He could think about it clearly now.

She’d taken a prolific compound that she’d _known_ was dangerous in ways that other drugs weren’t and had simply taken a joy ride; uncaring of the possible personal and familial cost. As if she’d deliberately done the one thing that she’d promised _not_ to do to make her mother rue the day she’d made that slice of connection over the last month.

All because she believed their mother was having an affair. She’d told him that.

_Thea_.

In hindsight, she was nothing like him. But it didn't make this any less his fault. _If I'd been there_\- maybe this wouldn't have happened. If he'd returned home sooner, maybe the relationship between his sister and mother might not have caused this.

And he’d had to leave her. Collected at the hospital like a common criminal, it had been pure luck that the press hadn’t caught wind of her arrest. She’d been let out on a bail over an hour ago - _thanks mom _\- that no working-class citizen of the city could have afforded, bypassing a remand order from a judge whose name he didn’t recognise. He’d do a check later-

“I guessed that you weren’t here to cross another a name off the list.”

“I needed to-” Search. Taking a deeper than needed breath for his body and a shallower one than warranted for his soul, Oliver gestured to the monitor at Dig’s side. “I was looking for Felicity.”

One brown brow arched without following Oliver’s hand. “You couldn’t just call her phone?”

Not wanting to dignify that with a response, he slammed closed the draw to his training affects and shot him a look. “First thing I tried, Dig.”

“Okay… I feel like I’m missing something.”

Hands shoved roughly up through his hair and down to his neck, he took another breath and felt his heart kick up a notch in his chest. _Stop_. It was nothing. It was fine. “I can’t find her.”

“Oliver, she’s probably at home-”

“John.” Eyes coming to his - seeing John still and wait - Oliver spoke with them as much as he did his mouth. “I can’t find her.”

And that same lick of tension - worry - echoed over his bodyguard’s face. “What do you mean, you can’t find her?”

“I mean, she isn’t anywhere.” Hands dropping, shifting - still speaking in that near-whisper, because he knew that if he didn’t, he’d shout - he shook his head and silently asked Diggle to make sense of what he didn’t understand. To tell him why it felt so much worse now that he was telling someone. “She isn’t at work; she isn’t at home.” He said before absently adding. “Unless she ignored my knock on her door this morning…”

Dig snorted. “Unlikely.”

But Oliver was elsewhere. “I checked the few places I’ve seen her go to. I asked at the desk at QC.” As if this was the first time that he’d uttered those words, the thudding in his chest became a pounding; chased by the chill at the bottom of his spine. “I can’t find her.”

Straightening to stand, John crossed his arms; focusing more on what Oliver was sure was the worry he could see rising out of him - like steam through his pores - than the situation at hand. The lack of control he felt was unacceptable. “Two threads: why were you looking for her and why are we worrying?”

“Yesterday, she promised she’d share what she knew about Walter this morning.” At the surprise on John’s face, Oliver elaborated. “It has something to do with my mother. I was going to tell you but-”

“After what happened, I needed a few hours with Carly. It’s fine.” And he sounded like it was.

Oliver _didn’t_ sound fine. “She’s a creature of habit, John.” When his chest moved with his breath this time, it stuttered. His heartbeat felt like thunder. “And I _can’t_ find her.”

He couldn’t find his IT Girl. 

Nodding slowly, processing; John didn’t blink. “And you think there’s a problem?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Alright.” Nodding again, John breathed in deep; gaging the vigilante he’d decided to stand alongside not too long before and seeing things he knew Oliver didn’t. Couldn’t. “Alright, take away how you feel right now.”

Distracted, eyes narrowing, brow creasing; Oliver sent him a bewildered glance. “What?”

“You’re worried. Frustrated.” Feeling that sage stare on him didn’t stop Oliver from turning away. “Afraid.”

Staring at the ground, it took him almost half a minute to meet Dig’s eyes again because he knew he was waiting for it. “What’s your point?” The harsh bite of his tone echoed around them in the Foundry.

But it didn’t faze John. “Take away how you feel right now.” He repeated. “Take away who she is.” Invisible hands pressed against the tissue surrounding his heart because there were too many words. “You have good instincts Oliver; what does your gut tell you?”

What had it been whispering at him all day, despite a lack of evidence, because sometimes you just know? One thing doesn’t add up with another and it’s easy to miss. He'd survived by following his own instincts for years; what was different now?

_I don't miss_, hadn’t missed a thing in years.

A thin breath left him as he answered. “Something’s wrong.”

Quiet, John asked. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." Resolve climbed in, soothing the heat in his chest. "What I have to." Whatever that was.

And if he'd worried about the events of the day before affecting Dig, he needn't have. "Sounds good." Not if the smile on his face was anything to go by. "I'm in." Walking towards the monitors Oliver had activated, John pulled the chair beneath him to sit. "We might not agree on everything Oliver, but I'd be an idiot not to pay attention to your instincts."

Stood around the side of the desk, Oliver felt oddly... exposed. "Thank you."

He made sound of acknowledgement and shrugged a shoulder. "I like her." And then peered above the screen at him; his expression, unreadable. "If there is something wrong, I don't want to have to deal with a you who didn't do anything about it."

Anything? _No._ Nodding by way of an answer Oliver moved to change.

_If there's even the slightest possibility that something's wrong, that Felicity's in trouble... I'll do_ everything_ about it._

There was no choice to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So um.... thoughts? FEED ME REVIEWS, I'M DEPRIVED (Depraved?)


	9. When Bad Goes to Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'So THIS is what a really bad day feels like.' Felicity's about to find out.  
Oliver finds his focus.  
And John... John's worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WILL RESPOND TO YOUR REVIEWS, I PROMISE! Just bare with me guys; I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing. Thank you all so much for your enthusiasm!

_…This is really bad._

The kind of bad that only leads to worse. The kind of _worse_ that ends in the type of ‘time’s up’ that she’d only ever seen play out on TV before, and it had never ended well for any side character. Felicity Smoak was the _epitome_ of a side-character, even in her own head. Side characters don’t carry guns, they don’t know Kung Fu. They serve their purpose with witty rhetoric’s and quirky anecdotes, give payment by way of laughter; in the end, their emotional connection to the protagonist is substantial enough to leave the audience visibly teary eyed and drained of all but hope and the promise of a sequel at the end of the line.

Basically, they’re cannon fodder.

_How did I become cannon fodder?_ She’d given a crap, that was all. _That’s unfair._ Was it? _Sort of._ She’d done the right thing. Sometimes the right thing comes at a cost. The right thing _always_ comes at a cost.

_So, this is very bad- all the bad; there aren’t words to describe the incomprehensibility of all the bad happening here._

The bad of her being where she shouldn’t be as opposed of where she should. At home. _What time is it- doesn’t matter_. There was just one thought reoccurring.

Don’t.

Make.

A.

Sound.

He’d know she was awake if she did.

_Bad_ was such a good word, the _operative_ word. For this. For her waking up out of a dead sleep- _unconscious. Where I woke up after being ‘unconscious’. I’ve never been unconscious before- unless you count that time in college where I- never mind. I did nothing. It’s history._

But she’d been unconscious after being hit over the head, _let’s not forget that_. No one had ever hit her before either, not like that. _It truly is a year of firsts for me_. No one had ever aimed to take her out of the equation like that. She’d stepped out, she’d taken a chance and it had backfired horribly.

_“Miss Smoak?”_

_She paused, twisting back to look at Oliver’s mother-_

_Just in time to see the lamp come down across her forehead._

** _PAIN._ **

_The side of her face exploded._

_World fading to black, she fell._

_Blinded-sided._

Lights out. No passing jail, no collecting two hundred dollars. Knocked unconscious by her _Boss_. She supposed there were worst things. _Can’t think of any right now_-

Her left thigh jolted soundlessly.

Fear seized her rib cage, like a koala to the branch of its favourite tree._ Don’t move, don’t- don’t move, don’t- frack, stop twitching! _The more she thought it, the worse her leg trembled._ Okay, just… don’t breathe- I’m breathing in! Stop breathing. Stop- don’t breathe out! Hold it. Hold. It. _The rise and fall of her chest- _Stop. It._

Easier said than done; it was impossible. She kind of _needed_ to breathe.

And she was trembling so hard, she irrationally - _there is nothing irrational about my fears in this moment_ \- worried that whoever ‘he’ was - the man humming to himself somewhere close by - could feel the vibration through the stone-cold floor. The stone-cold floor in the dank, superbly _creepy_-dark, too-big-to-sit-in-without-feeling-like-Mighty-Mouse-but-only-if-Mighty-Mouse-was-Puny-Fraidy-Rebel-Without-A-Cause-Mouse, abandoned warehouse.

She was alone.

_Correction: I’m alone with the strange man, which is so much better_. _So. Much._ A strange man who - from the tiny glimpse she’d caught of him through when she’d squinted through the miniscule slit of her eyelids - was bigger and probably stronger than her several times over, _if the hard back and huge shoulders are any indication_.

Genius intellect and a whirling dervish of words would do very little against that exterior, she was sure.

Just to complete this dire picture? Her shoes were missing.

_Don’t cry. _It took everything she had to hold back the whimper, to keep control of her face. _Even if you are in trouble. _There was no if about it. And trying not to press her lips together, trying to keep up the pressure of keeping the lids of her eyes down. Trying to ignore the slow chill covering her skin in goosebumps, was the hardest thing she could remember ever having to do. _Frack_. _Frack, frackity-frack._

Why couldn’t it be the good type of trouble? The kind that came with caught breaths, happy butterflies, titillating fantasies, buried longings and that swirly-whirly feeling of falling. Though recently, granite jaws, a penetrating stare that flashed shamefully through her dreams at night - _he will never know_ \- and a tempting lie for a smile had travelled along for the ride too. The kind of possibility worth the effort to keep digging deep for. Deep into _him_. Of breaking borders and boundaries and getting dirty for. Every kind of dirty; dirt, waste and thrilling secrets to hide.

The willingness to jump in with both feet, that’s what he’d pried loose. What he’d deliberately stirred. And she was helpless against its passion.

Though it meant getting hurt. _Please read the bottle on the label next time_, the one that screamed that Oliver was a vigilante and his family were in deep with the kind of secrets that could turn an already broken city, on its side.

And she’d gone right ahead and walked into it anyway.

She’d known. Deep down, she’d known.

He’d walked into her office and had asked, without speaking a word, for her _not_ to care as he provoked, enticed and entreated her neglected - starved of colour - intellect to do the opposite. To continue wanting to help him as he reached out, as he snared her in trust-

As he trusted her back.

Arrows. Secrets. Lies. Possibilities.

_Oliver._

Was this what it meant to live?

A question for another time because her feet were freezing_. Don’t… move… toes._ Even if the tip of her big toe was numb, the other little piglets were tingling with the onset of pins and needles. They’d be numb soon too. Plus, her head felt like it had gone a round with a tyre iron. Clearly the tyre iron had won.

Her butt was numb too where it had been rigidly preoccupied with keeping still, seated on a chair she doubted could handle her weight and-

Her hands were tied together. _Plastic zip-ties?_ Lips pressed together - to keep the mimble-wimble nature of her courage silent so that the nice man with the bag full of toys on the table she’d managed to glimpse, didn’t know she was secretly awake - she categorised why this was as bad she’d feared on waking.

She was shoe-less. Shoe-less and her shorter-than-she’d-realised-skirt barely covered her thighs, so it was no wonder her legs were just _feeling_ that breeze. The freezing cold of winter. And all because Oliver’s mother had hit her in the face with a lamp. Even thinking the light sounded insane. _Oliver’s mother, in the bedroom, with the lamp._

She really wanted to cry. _Or stuff my face with marshmallows in bed and take all the happy pills I can swallow at once, that’s a viable alternative_. Her entire brain hurt. _All of it_. She could _feel_ all of her brain. _It’s grown arms and legs and it’s wrapped around my skull, which is worrying… my brain is practically my only redeeming feature. That and my thighs_. The thighs that were currently on display. _If he can’t see my underwear, I’ll call it even with my judgement_. Hopefully, Moira Queen hadn’t left her with permanent damage or anything; _though it would top off this sucktastic cake with a little sour icing to make a bitter desert complete._

Two key notes of concern. First, Moira had decided she was a problem. She was a problem because she’d come across a secret Moira would- _kill? Would she kill me?_ Unfortunately, Felicity being in the warehouse – _how many abandoned warehouses are even in Starlin_g, there always seemed to be an abundance – insinuated that there was something Moira still needed. From that, Felicity could infer what the man in front of her was for.

_He’s going to hurt me._

What else were the bag of toys for?

The second concern, almost tiny before the first and yet absolutely relevant, was that no one would be looking for her-

She’d told Oliver she’d tell him the truth. _Maybe he’ll come…_

He thought died as quickly as it had bloomed. Even if he did come looking, he had no reason to suspect a problem. And even less of a no-reason to go against his mother. She wouldn’t want him to any-

“_’Have you heard the news?’_”

Music. From his phone- _Ring tone?_

“_’Bad things come in twos.’_”

She swallowed before she could stop herself. Was the song some kind of portent?

“_’But I never knew, about the little things-_ you took too long.” Whoever he was, his voice sounded like a scotch-soaked croon; as if one too many absinthe's had eroded his voice into something less human but not necessarily negative. Definitely older than her, by several decades. Middle aged. “Yeah, she’s awake.”

The rest of Felicity froze in place along with her toes.

“Not sure.” He said in answer to a question and she could feel his eyes on her now, hear his voice aimed in her direction. “She was trying so hard not to make a peep.” Mortification flooded her insides, adding to the fear; knowing that she’d so hard for nothing. “I didn’t have the heart to let her know otherwise.” It didn’t sound remotely like compassion.

It sounded like indifference. And, if she was awfully mistaken (_please let me be mistaken_), dry_._ As if it didn’t really matter either way, but t had been _really_ sweet and courageous of her to give it her all anyway, which meant one thing.

She was toast. _I’m a dead woman_. Maybe not. Maybe there was more to this. Maybe her fast tongue - _and non-filter, let’s not forget that tiny little detail that could get my offed on a good day _\- could provoke a different outcome.

Or make it so much worse.

With that in mind, it seemed pointless to keep pretending she wasn’t awake and with further ado, Felicity blinked her eyes open-

And nearly toppled sideways. _Dizzy…_

“You know I have both eyes on her.” The voice was saying, and in her blurred peripheral she saw him step away from his table and move closer to her. _No, away. Move away_. “I don’t think she’s going to be much of a problem; she can barely sit up straight.” He wasn’t wrong. “How far away are you?”

Practicality called and taking stock of herself felt like the right thing to do. Emotionally, she had to screw her face up to avoid bawling and then the man in front of her would know just how much of a wuss his hostage was. Take breaths. The deeper the better- _or maybe not, maybe shallow is good_, because deep breaths made her chest hurt and made her want to hurl.

At least now she could rotate her ankle and tap her feet against the floor for circulation. She was sure she looked _fierce_; head wound, _check_. Shoe-less, _check_. Hands tied behind her back, _check_. Glasses thankfully not lopsided on her face, _check_. Hair, probably a frightful mess? _Check_. Freezing without her coat, _check_-

Wait, where was her coat?

“Alright.” The call was coming to an end and, blinking dementedly, Felicity managed to get the strange man into better focus by the time he was finished with his call. “See you soon.” He hung up.

Then he peered down at her from where he stood several feet away. He did that but didn’t say a word. He looked introspective. Or maybe he was just gaging her. But in doing that she got her first good look at him, felt her brain start to come back alive and blurted out the first words it generated. “Richard Clyde?”

His thick brows split in the middle. “Well now. Someone did her job well.”

Throat extremely dry, her brain to mouth filter - her restraint - hadn’t flickered back on yet as she croaked. “Tell me about it.”

Surprise seemed to unlock his blank face, not unlike Oliver’s blank face- _though Oliver’s eyes don’t really lie so much-_

“If you insist.” Abruptly moving, her reached behind him for a chair she hadn’t seen, dropped it in front of her with a clang loud enough to make her jump - _let’s be realistic, I haven’t stopped shaking since I woke up_ \- and proceeded to straddle it. Now he was eye level with her, and she couldn’t say that improved the situation any. “You did a job for Walter Steele. You did it a little _too_ well.” Like a teacher scolding a student, the way Richard Clyde’s head dropped to give her the ‘learn from this’ stare made her feel faint. It felt like one big play. An act. Like this man was so used to doing things like this that it was second nature to _educate_ before pulling the trigger- _I just had to think about trigger pulling, didn’t I?_ “You sent him scurrying for evidence against some really bad people.” He spoke like she was a child, but not to humiliate her. It was factual. Whoever was behind the Gambit sabotage, whoever had coerced Moira Queen into business with them, was _bad_. It made everything weirdly worse. “And he got himself kidnapped.”

Genuinely too terrified to respond, another stuttered breath left her; her legs pressing together for warmth, fingers rubbing each other behind her back.

“We didn’t know about you though.” Leaning forwards against the back of the chair, Mr Hardbody let his arms slump against it; his hand reaching up to rub at his scalp. “We thought the job was done.”

“We?” He blinked, cut off; but the easy way he spoke about what they’d done to Mr Steel made her want to name names of her own, despite the embarrassing way her voice wobbled. “You and… Mrs Queen?”

“Mrs Queen.” The whisper was followed by an odd twitch of his mouth as dull coloured eyes stared into her face. “Such respect for a woman who helped put you here. The rest though,” headed on a sigh, already pulling back on his chair, already bored with this, “you did to yourself.”

The blame game. _Yay_. He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t right either. But as he got up and walked back over to his table of haunts, she was immediately struck dumb by the sheer size of the place surrounding them. Cavernous in a way that made a tiny spec such as herself feel even more superfluous and disposable than she normally felt. _There’s no hiding place_. If she ran, she’d need at least twenty seconds to clear the area. The pit in her stomach dug a new hole.

“She’ll be here soon.” He said, his back still turned to her and- _Mrs Queen will be here? To what? Watch as he does… _whatever_ he’s supposed to do?_ Heart hammering, she did everything she could to hold back tears. It didn’t fully work. “In the meantime, it’s my job to see what else you know.”

Shivering at the implication, she made herself look at him. Stare at him. Beg him with eyes he couldn’t see because her voice wasn’t working. Pray that he didn’t just say that, that she’d misheard.

“It’s not a fun job.” There was her answer, _oh god_. “I take little pleasure in extracting information, especially from someone such as yourself.” _I can’t do this, I can’t- help me_. A pressure in her chest was climbing. Fear a sick pulse in her wrists and the ache in her feet. “But it must be done.” _Someone, please know about this_. But who would be coming? Who knew her enough to miss her absence for one day? _Please. _“Don’t want you out there with tools to ruin us.” Panic made her cry then, coming out in shakes and spats of air as she fought and failed to fight against the crushing sense of hopelessness that she realised other people who’d been in her position in the past had felt. “And then… well, my _mistress_ wants a word with you.”

All she’d wanted was to find Walter.

She’d known the path might be a dark one. But she’d never imagined… _Oliver_. What was he going to do when he finds out that his mother had her husband kidnapped? Oliver, who’s family mattered to him more than his own sanity. Oliver, who’d run miles with broken bones to ask for her help; just something to make his mother leave her room.

That same mother who probably wanted to look her in the eye as this man made her beg and promise that she’d never tell a soul a thing about what she’d found.

It was so simple. Give in or say no. Simple felt insurmountable right then.

And when Richard Clyde turned back around with a set of wires, nodes and what looked like an old, overused power box, a flare terror so strong had her struggling against the ties at her wrists. Had her craning her neck in her search for escape. Had her leaning as far away as the chair she sat in would allow her to as he closed in.

“None of that.” Ignoring her sob, he unceremoniously plopped the garbage – but still usable – method of applying electrical outputs against human skin on the floor beside her chair and started playing with the wires and she heard the drone of the machine as it powered up. “Now this can either be really quick,” he said with a frown as he untangled wires, ignoring her open mouth, her wide eyes, her tears, “or really _not_ quick. Your choice.”

Face wet, bile rising, she swallowed…

And, astonishingly, she didn’t say a word.

“Alrighty.” Holding the plastic covering of two conduits, he patted the exposed metal against each other and sparks – a crackling noise that sounded like the breaking of tiny bones – burst free in quick flares of power and she flinched. “Let’s see if this works.”

Shaking her head, “No.” Voice cracking, head shaking swiftly, legs lifting as it to keep him away when he bent forwards; she couldn’t seem to help what tumbled out. _I’m not brave_. “No, no, no-”_ I want-_ she wanted something she couldn’t have. “Please don’t-”

“Here we go.”

Without hesitation, he aimed for the open collar of her buttoned shirt and pressed the nodes against her skin.

* * *

“I looked for her car.” John announced on entry back inside the Foundry, from the alley way door. “An old buddy of mine owes me more than a few favours; I had him track the GPS in her Sat-Nav.” The auto-lock on the door pinged behind him and he palmed his keys, pensive and…

Worried. He could admit it, unlike before where he indulged Oliver in one of what - he thought - was another stretch of paranoia. But the signs were all there, and there were only so many ways that two plus two could equal to four. After what he’d just been told…

_This’ll be a long night._

Trepidation made each step a climb; he wasn’t sure how his own fears about would translate to the vigilante he now worked with and that was another thing to worry about. So far, barring Helen’s brand of crazy and her ability to bring out similar traits in the vigilante, Oliver had been a staunch follower of tactical reconnaissance and controlled aggression. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t close to good _on_ good days at times; but it was a damn sight more than John had expected from a victim of trauma. His methods - albeit, unorthodox - were a brand of therapy by Oliver’s own design that he seemed to need, and John didn’t pretend to fully understand why. _His cavernous depths are a wilderness of thorns and dark things_, something his CO used to say about a squad mate who’d volunteered _out_ for ‘specialist training’. Oliver reminded John strongly of him.

Wearing the hood? It allowed him to integrate more effectively with his family and friends, with a city that didn’t recognise his day face.

But the _anger_ in him - the foreign light John sometimes glimpsed flare through his eyes, the thing that made unease draw is chest - that was another thing. With that in mind, he knew it wasn’t wise to introduce brand new territory, any outside stressor, to an island returnee with PTSD.

Still, Felicity Smoak wasn’t his mother or sister. Or… anything more. More _than_ friend, like Tommy Merlyn or Laurel Lance.

She was an IT girl he’d made use of one too many times.

Oliver could be copacetic, with this if nothing else. Functional, if given the chance. Even if, not so deep down inside of John, he hoped to god that nothing had happened to the sweetheart.

_So, trust him_, he exhaled. _Carefully_. “This is where,” he started, voice quiet and carrying throughout the emptiness of the Foundry, “you give me a good reason for why her GPS would be turned _off_.” One of those _signs_. The kind that the military had instilled in John a level of awareness about, one to pay attention to. Feet taking him around the staircase and pillar cutting off the rest of the foundry from Oliver’s ‘workstation’, Diggle shook his head, drawing mental blanks as his chest filled in a few of those holes with possibilities he was attempting to remain deaf to. “I am fresh out of-”

Oliver strode past him, eyes on a prise unknown to John and it was the second time that day that he’d found himself pausing at the sight of an Oliver Queen… affected.

But the difference between then and _this_ made his unease shoot up to foreboding. “Oliver?”

Already in full Hood apparel - sans boots, which he held in one hand - Oliver was completely intent on the seat in front of his workstation-

In front of the red _laptop_ on his workstation. _That’s new_.

As was the way Oliver stared at the screen as he purposefully lifted one foot onto the stool to shove into a green boot. “I know where she is.”

_Whoa_\- “Back up.” Making the universal hand motion for his friend to be ‘kind and rewind’, John stepped closer; still in the dark, a place he didn’t enjoying standing in. “Last time we saw each other, you were in civvies and on your way to do a little recon at Felicity’s place.” With the resolution just pouring off Oliver - the speed in which he zipped and fastened his boots to his leather pants, the granite set to his jaw - and the way he wouldn’t look _away_ from the screen, not for a second, was all John needed to understand; he was dealing with a brick wall as far as any _objections_ were concerned. He pulled a face. _But maybe… _“By the look of you, I’d say you did more than a little reconnaissance.” His eyes dropped to the second boot Oliver lifted and up again towards the back of his friend’s head. “What did you find?”

“She wasn’t there.” _Clearly_. The words were almost cut out of Oliver, yet devoid of the energy John had felt pulsing from him before and replaced with… something else. A something that tightened around his spine like a snake would a stick of wood. Oliver was already elsewhere, inclusively. He wasn’t inviting John into the space, and that didn’t feel right. Not after what they’d been through so far. It didn’t feel _right_. “There was nothing in her home to suggest foul play.”

_And yet you’re like this?_ “But I’m guessing the hunch paid off.”

“I took a look around.” It was strange to feel like he was being ignored, even whilst Oliver spoke to him. “There was nothing suspicious.” Circumspect or no, Oliver had found something. “But her laptop was open.” Oliver was moving again before his second booted foot had left the stool. “And logged in.” Before striding over to his box of tricks. “Running. Charged.” Briefly sending John a glance over his shoulder before he all but disappeared to retrieve what John was sure was his bow, Oliver added. “I think she left it for me to find.”

There was a point were paranoia and loneliness intersected and Oliver was pushing the danger zone. “For _you_?”

_You, you or… _you_?_

Distracted, Oliver sent him a very brief, quizzical glance. “What?”

“Oliver or the hood?”

“I think… Oliver.” He’d told Oliver before just how creepy it was that he referred to himself in the third person, as if neither face was real or human. “Unless she knows I’m the Hood, which I wouldn’t put past her.”

“Excuse me?”

A draw closed just beyond his point of vision. “She is very smart.”

“No kidding.” There was still something missing. “But when did smart lead to her realising who you are?”

“When she asked me to do her intelligence the courtesy of not lying to her.”

Eyes on him as he walked back towards him, John stared at him. _And?_ He couldn’t just leave it there without an explanation. “And did you?” Did he stop lying and tell her the truth?

“I did.”

“So,” both brows rose, “you told her the truth?”

“No.” Bow placed on the table and hands finally free, Oliver sent him a look. “I stopped lying.”

These clipped answers were starting to grate. “What does that mean?”

Turning, Oliver leaned over the laptop again; both palms placed on the table. “It means I no longer have to fabricate stories with her, John.”

That still didn’t answer his question.

Spine straight and a rigid testament to his control, the concave of Oliver’s shoulder’s from where he was bent reminded John of the wings of an overgrown bird of prey. _Protective instincts_. “What are you looking at?

“A signal from a GPS.”

That had John moving. “From where?”

In lieu of a response, Oliver simply stood aside to let him see what had taken his attention.

The grid took up a third of the screen and seemed to cover a few miles somewhere near the docks of Starling City. Inside one of Queen Consolidated’s old warehouses, a bright red dot flashed hot. Right next to the dot was a speech bubble. In the speech bubble were words:

_Help me._

Pulling back, released a breath. “I’ll be damned.”

A minuscule nod from Oliver was followed by a whisper. “Smart.” Then he moved back his bow, shouldering his quiver of treats already.

“In danger of getting my head bitten off,” and by the fine ripple of tension that immediately appeared in Oliver’s face, he wasn’t far off the mark, “shouldn’t there be more of a plan than seeing a signal flash on a laptop that could have been planted there by whoever-”

Whoever took Felicity Smoak.

Someone took their kind, sweet, outrageously smart IT girl. It’s real. _It’s not right but it’s real_.

A realness that now had Oliver looking the kind of focused that John hadn’t seen from him so far in this agreement of theirs. “It’s her laptop.”

He kept his eyes tightly on him. “That doesn’t answer the question.”

A frustrated exhale left him; swift and impatient, but his voice held an eerie softness. “What is it John?” Like if he spoke in anything but a quiet cadence, he’d fall loose of the control that was so brittle around him right now. “Too easy?”

“Maybe.” A nod. “Or maybe I’m just wondering about what this means to you and whether or not I have to worry about that.”

Brow tilting, Oliver shook his head once. “What?”

“You were all emotion before.” Before, when pummelling a training dummy literally to pieces wasn’t enough. “Now you’re bottled up tight.” With someplace to go which, in hindsight, might be worse than venting on a man of straw and wood. “I haven’t seen you like this before. Not even with Helena.” He added when he saw Oliver reach for dismissal.

It wasn’t a glare that Oliver sent him, but it also wasn’t harmless. “What’s your point?”

“I’ve seen you boiling over with emotions you’ve probably kept repressed for a long time.” When Helena was an option Oliver had been all to happy to take because it meant his loneliness might be cut in half for a time, because a soul needs a reprieve from guilt and saving the soul of another felt like forgiveness. “And I’ve seen you focused. But I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?

“Certain.”

Absolutely convinced and firm in that conviction that Felicity was not only in trouble, but was also leading the way to her own rescue.

It was easy to confuse with the purposeful way Oliver had hacked at the list until now, which was why Oliver’s frown wasn’t surprising. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been certain up until now.”

“Not like this.” He gestured to the computer. “Since when do we trust random messages on laptops from IT girls? Since when does a missing Felicity Smoak lead to a kidnapping at the docks?”

“This is Starling City.” Looking ready for war, Oliver stood toe to toe with him. “Bad things happen here.”

He took him in. “Each time you’ve trusted someone or something like this, it’s left you scarred.”

“Worried about me John?”

_Cocky_. Jaw tensing, John folded his arms. “Maybe.”

“Don’t be.” The slight smile on his face, made of ice and that same certainty he’d spoken about just now, wasn’t real. “I’ve got this.”

And as John watched him walk away towards the alleyway exit, he couldn’t help but ask. “But who’s got you?”

“Just keep an eye on the signal John.” He replied without looking back. “Tell me if it moves.”

“You trust her?” He called out to him.

There was a pause before he heard an answer.

“…She trusts _me_.”

* * *

She’d like to say that she took it like a champ, but that would be lying.

“See?” The seemingly disembodied voice above her head said to her. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

The torture. Electrical shocks.

Blearily eyed, aching – she was pretty certain that snot covered half her face alongside the tears – Felicity managed to shudder out a breath before whimpering. “Please don’t do that again.”

She could honestly say she’d never felt anything quite so painful in her life; _period cramps are a thing, I assure you_.

“Why would I?” The heartless bastard stood in front of her asked, like she was the strange one for suggesting that he would. “You answered every question.”

And she had. She answered every single question _within_ the realm of the question. Thankfully, her interrogator lacked in creativity what he made up for in sadistic zealousness; _if by zeal I mean, completely detached_. He hadn’t cracked an expression the entire time. For the most part, it almost as scary as the shocks he’d delivered on. But it had also helped. She hadn’t been talking - screaming, crying, begging, convincing - to a person; she’d been talking to a mask.

It had helped her lie as she told the truth.

_I’m the leading character in my own life dammit_. But she had no idea how to get out of this, out of here. Or where to run to once she did. She doubted someone as rich and influential as Moira Queen would let her run to police or-

“You’re clear!” Mr Clyde’s shout to some place on the shadows and beyond Felicity’s line of sight just about made Felicity loose what was left of her decorum and she actually checked to make sure she hadn’t become incontinent. _Because the day wasn’t mortifying and horrifying enough_. “Everything she told you is everything she knows.”

There was a moment of silence where Felicity gaped up at the man, terrified than another screw had come loose in him-

But then she heard heels clip clap across the stone-cold ground.

She didn’t need to move her cold limbs - simultaneously limbered up and near-numb by electric shocks - to know who it was. She knew those shoes, that walk.

“Thank you, Richard.”

That voice.

“I can imagine how unpleasant this has been for you, Miss Smoak.” Yet there was an air of self-satisfaction amidst the discomfort in both her voice and on her face as Mrs Queen stepped into view. As Richard moved _out_ of view. “But I will do anything to protect my family.”

Swallowing with the kind of dry throat she associated with deserts and heat, Felicity watched Moira take her in. Watched her _feel_ and quietly hate herself for having done this to her. Watched her inhale and decide that in the great scheme of things, Felicity mattered very little; if at all.

She watched superiority reign free.

“I told you before that my children are all that matter to me. I don’t know what you thought you were going to accomplish,” and really, wasn’t it crass to gloat over the pathetic IT girl with her hands tied? “But your courage ends here.”

_And… what was that supposed to mean?_

“I’ll be outside.” Came Richard’s voice and though Felicity saw Moira shift in front of her, she wasn’t quite brave enough this time to see the expression on her face. “You choose Moira.”

And with those mysterious choice of words, she heard the low pat of man-sized shoes slowly diminish until silence reigned.

Inhaling what was left of her spine, Felicity met Moira’s eyes.

_How could Oliver be born from someone so cold?_ He was her opposite in every single way; even when he tried to be cold, he was warm.

“I wish you hadn’t been so curious Miss Smoak. Walter will be fine.” An odd choice of words to thread together. “I’ve been assured of his safety.”

And it was surprising to Felicity how she could summon a pitying stare for Moira as she muttered. “The nice bad man who told you to silence Walter, promised you he’d be kept safe… and you believe him?” Lips pressing together had the hardening expression on Moira’s face, Felicity rasped out an, “okay.”

“I don’t expect you to understand-”

“I think we had this conversation.”

How her whisper could silence the woman before her, she didn’t know; but Moira Queen nodded. “We did.”

Her stare took a turn for pleading. “…Now what?”

“Now.” Shoulders rising with the weight of her next breath, Mrs Queen brought out the hand she’d kept inside her coat pocket-

“Now I say I’m sorry.”

And she lifted her arm to point the pistol in her hand at Felicity’s face.

“But I can’t let you leave here knowing what you know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last cliffhanger in this arc guys; the next chapter is the one you've been waiting for.  
I WILL get to your reviews, promise you that.


	10. You Came For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....the title says it all

“Where is she?”

Cigarette stuck to the lower lip of his open mouth - jaw slack, eyes wide and admittedly, gormless - Richard’s thumb froze before it could strike a flame on his lighter, his gaze landing on… _well shit_.

Green leather, even in the dark, shouldn’t be that imposing; but the unfamiliar spasm in his stomach, the ripple of unease under his skin- they told a different story.

“Ah-” Words wouldn’t form, despite how he wanted them to because- _this guy’s not going to let me get away with silence_. It was intuitive, purely instinctual and he’d learned over the years – since he’d turned legal – that his gut was a thing to pay attention to. “What?”

“I said,” and there was no need for the already infamous man to draw his bow, to notch an arrow; there was just something so impeccably imposing about the way the hooded vigilante - stood in moonlight - didn’t _need_ to, that set a flare of warning off in his brain, “where is she?”

But he did step forward. Closer. Closer wasn’t better.

Richard swallowed. “I-” And he cleared his throat, feeling a surge of irritation at himself for being so struck dumb by something so… _this_. He’d lived through a lot. _Seen_ a lot. This wasn’t the worst of the worst, so why was his throat closing? “Who?”

He didn’t see the edge of the bow coming-

“_Agh_.” But he felt it impact against the side of his face _just_ fine.

“I won’t ask again.” The voice was concealed by a mediocre modulator that still managed to do the trick – _just_. And with Richard on one knee, _just_ was a _lot_. “Where is she?”

Spitting out a glob of blood didn't serve to bolster his confidence - _haven’t tasted my own blood since before Robert was killed_ \- but it bought him a second to wonder how the fuck the _Hood_ knew about the disappearance of some nobody who worked in the IT department at QC-

Or was she some nobody, really? It wasn't as if illegal, extra-curricular activities present themselves on resumes. 

He played for time. “Who?”

And he could almost feel the man who’s face he couldn’t see, physically tighten to the point of metaphorical breakage. “Felicity.” Richard winced at the _grate_. “Smoak.”

_Jesus, fuck_. He staggered to his feet; the split in his lip already a throbbing menace. _Moira has some explaining to do_. She always had enjoyed making him wait. For everything. Anything. He’d never told her he enjoyed it; the thrill of anticipation. Let her think she had leverage, let her monopolise the field. It didn’t bother him; she clearly needed it. “What makes you think there’s anyone here by that name?” It was pointless to insinuate he was loitering all by his lonesome in the middle of nowhere. Fingers nudging the knife at his belt was probably not the safest plan, but he doubted this guy - despite the rapidly growing reputation - could stop him once it was out of its sheath. “Does this look like a place _anyone_ would come to on a Saturday-”

Jerking around, arm sweeping upwards - fast enough to throw most men and women for a loop - he brought the dagger down in a flurried arc-

A green leather glove wrapped around his wrist before he could process that it had been halted and just as swiftly, the Hood wrenched it _down_. The pain was too sharp for him to do anything except shriek in a way he’d _never_ done as his arm was twisted in such a way that his body couldn’t accommodate for _any_ length of time, forcing him to turn.

His face and chest slammed against his car; teeth rattling on impact.

“Last chance.” The warm breath in his ear belied the deadly intention in the masked voice. “Where-”

He felt the vigilante jerk behind him, as if something had caught his attention. _Can I move my-_ No, he couldn’t move at all. Not a millimetre. Attention drawn in no way suggested diversion, not even as he felt him shift ever so slightly - without releasing his painfully tight hold on him - when the hooded head stole a glance through the car window and saw-

Something in his stomach _dropped._

Felicity Smoak’s shoes lay in the front seat, where Richard had deliberately left them after pulling her out of his car, _because I’m too good at my job_. It had never been a thing to fuck him over before today. _Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit._

But he could at least _try_ to explain away the missing girl’s shoes in his car to the dangerous man in a green hood, bow and quiver of arrows. “I-” it was difficult to speak with his cheek smashed against metal, “I can explain.”

And what was there to explain? He had the shoes of a missing person in his car and the vigilante knew about it. But Richard was stuttering and that was a new sensation to process. That a kid in a green leather hood, who had him pressed so hard against his own car door that he could hear the metal creak, feel his own joints complain at the pressure, could make him feel so… _afraid_.

He tried to swallow saliva with a tang of copper. “It isn’t-”

A gunshot tore through the silence from the warehouses littered behind him and whatever calm he had left, vacated out of his ass. _I’ll be damned, she did it_. She hadn't had to pull the trigger, not necessarily. But it _was_ safer. Not right, not clean; but required.

Still, he didn’t think the Hood would appreciate or care for her reasoning; not with the way he forced Richard’s fingers to lock in a way that made him wonder if he could ever use that hand to light up a cigarette again. “Who else is here?” Modulator or no, humans shouldn’t sound like that; like an animal with its teeth unsheathed, its back arched and on edge. “Start talking,” and how he could raise his voice without shouting was a talent Richard figured was learnt on the kind of horrific journey that produced nightmares, “or I start breaking bones.”

Well, with _that_ kind of initiative… “Nobody.”

Piercing was the operative word to describe the pain that tore through the palm of his hand and into his back and-

What kind of man would hurt him _just_ to hurt him?

He didn’t have long to think about it; the weight behind him lifted and he had half a second to _breathe._ But then a rough hand gripped into the long strands of hair at his cranium to yank his head back before forcing it forwards-

Into the rood of his car.

And he wondered briefly, before succumbing to sleep, how that kind of rage would fare against Malcolm Merlyn.

…Maybe he smiled.

* * *

**Two Minutes Earlier**

Those blue eyes looked down the barrel of the gun at her and it wasn’t unlike being stuck inside an igloo with an ice-blue door. There was no escape. “You did this to yourself.”

_In what fracking verse- _“I-I _made_ you point a gun at me?”

“You made me go this far.”

If she had a dime for when superiority complexes blame their psychosis on people they barely knew...

The fine tremble in Moira’s voice was surprising, as was the way Felicity was _lucky_ enough to be this close to her whilst being on the opposite end of promised death, to see that part of her at least, believed every word she’d said. _So lucky, lucky, lucky_-

A person could drive themselves mad thinking such things over and over.

“You're blaming me?” And Felicity sounded like she’d had the best/worst time the night before; nose stuffy with tears, throat dry, freezing, high-pitched, _help me, help me-_

“Walter made you an offer," as if she needed to _find_ a reason, "and you took it, when you should have minded your own business.” But reasons become excuses. “A high IQ _clearly_ doesn’t extend to common sense.”

And being a mother clearly didn’t extend to a conscience. “I wouldn’t say I took up an offer.” It wasn’t so much a mumble into the collar of her shirt, as a shaky whine; _she’s going to shoot me._ She wanted to cry. She wanted to curl up and sob like she hadn’t sobbed since her father left. Looking Moira in the eye for longer than a second at a time meant showing her that. “You’re g-going to shoot me…” Voice escaping her, she breathed through it; through the fear and found herself lacking. or is it wanting? Or were they both too similar to discern? “For trying to… to help your husband?”

“These things are rarely so simple, Miss Smoak.” Her hand wasn’t _quite_ as steady as she figured the Queen matriarch would like, but it was steady enough. “In helping my husband, you put hin on the path to some very dangerous people. Now I have to keep my family safe.”

By any means necessary, it seemed.

_I'm scared_. “And you do that by having Walter kidnapped?”

“Yes.”

“And by… doing this?”

“I don’t expect you to understand-”

“Tempest. Nameless, faceless, opposition-less, but not bankrupt.” She was going to die anyway, _oh god_\- “Whoever sabotaged the Gambit, you’re afraid that he’ll do the same again?”

The silence was telling. As was the way Moira continued to look at her; hard yet pleading and absolutely desperate for another choice… but there was also resolve there. Resolve to pull the trigger. Resolve that Felicity would remember for the rest of her possibly very short life.

Mrs Queen was going to kill her, despite all reservations.

“It-" _Breathe, just breathe_. "it won’t work.” And yes, _tears_. Again. She couldn’t stop them. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

“Am I?”

Well, she hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. “Eventually, whoever it is you’re so afraid of-”

“Terrified.” Quiet. Soft. Actually as afraid as she said she was. “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

Loose lips sink ships. _Keep her talking_. “Then you know that he’ll eventually turn on you anyway.” Legs pulling beneath her chair, Felicity straightened in her seat. “Whoever this is," pins and needles were a discomfort she needed to feel, "he’ll clean up shop when he’s done... doing _whatever_ it is that bad men and women do.” Head tilting, trailing off; Felicity watched, unable to fathom just why her words made certainty near-sing from Mrs Queen’s very pores. _God help me._

“…Probably.” The woman murmured; pity a layer of ice between her and Felicity. Pity for Felicity and the kind of self-entitlement she’d loved her children with for too long to let any amount of self-disgust stop her now. “But that’s not your concern.”

Mouth slightly open, Felicity tasted her own tears. “You do know your only redeeming feature is your love for your children.”

It came out like a question.

And the humourless curl of Moira’s lips told her that she knew that too.

“I could have helped you.”

One head-shake, _one_. “With what?” Eyes closing as the movement ended, Mrs Queen’s hand tightened around the handle of the gun. “There's-”

It meant that she didn’t see Felicity spring up out of her chair.

She _did_ feel a shoulder impact into her chest.

She _was_ surprised enough for her finger to squeeze the trigger as she fell backwards into the table Richard had brought in with him, as she hit the back of her head hard enough to make her dizzy; to make standing a little risky.

But _not_ hard enough to blind her to Felicity Smoak’s mad dash towards one of the open exits to the warehouse; hands still tied behind her back, bare feet slapping against the damp floor… and was she muttering?

_"Don't fall, don't fall; get out but don't fall..."_

She had to shoot her. The distance between them was expanding. _Try_. The girl knew too much.

But taking aim caused a sharp pain to shoot up the back of her head. Reaching a shaky hand to the area, she prodded and poked- she was bleeding a little. _I caught the edge of the table_.

And had now lost sight of an IT girl.

“No.” Voice wobbling, "_no_," Moira pushed a shaky elbow beneath her back to force herself upwards. “I have to.”

If she didn’t, her children would be killed.

They came first. First before everything.

Her marriage.

Her title.

…An innocent.

* * *

_Must go faster, must go faster, must go_\- “Ow!” Newsflash; running over tarmac and other dirty and probably tetanus coated items - screws, rotten wood, stones, bits of plastic, rubber, dust; dust _everywhere_ \- of miscellaneous function, without shoes on her feet, does hurt. _Who knew?_

It made her come to a stop.

“Who thought I’d miss heels? Certainly not me.” And she couldn’t stop, not here. Not now. “Move, keep… moving.” Whispering to herself seemed to help cool a modicum of the terror inside her, but it didn’t help with the pounding pulse in her ears. The echo of that gunshot. The numbness in her toes. “They’ll catch you, and do… _stuff_.” Her mind was all too capable of considering just what _stuff_ Moira Queen and her Mr Hardbody where capable of pulling off. _Then don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

She just had to keep moving.

On tip toe, she managed to make her way past a lot of plastic sheets- _for them to wrap my body in once they shoot me between the eyes._ “Morbid.” She whisper-squeaked and it reflected on her face. “Stop it!”

Her hands were still behind her back. _Right_. Adrenaline was wreaking havoc with her processing because she just couldn’t seem to make herself crouch back down to the ground. _I was just tied in a chair, thank you. _She had no wish to be anything but standing… but her hands needed to be free.

Pulling her face, “_why_?” It was more a sob than a whisper and despite needing to be rescued by the police right about freaking now, she was pretty glad no one was a witness to the way she all but crumpled to the ground. The way she started to cry in earnest for some reason as she rolled onto her butt and tried to wriggle her tied wrists beneath it. “Please.” Sniffling, tears streaming; she pushed, pulled, shimmied and stretched as much as she possibly could. “Please,” her chest heaved, “work.”

It hurt. The ties were too tight. _Me and pain aren’t the best of friends_. _Barely acquaintances really._ By the end of this, they’d probably be on a first name basis though. _Like a ‘girl behind bars’ video; Felicity Smoak, taken_. _Tied. Tired. Transformed._

If she thought it enough times, maybe it would mean something.

Teeth grit, body leaning backwards - legs curled into herself as she forced her hands as far down as she possibly could - Felicity strained on that last push-pull. Feeling the skin beneath the plastic ties give way to the ridges, she hissed in a breath, _come on…_

With a jolt, her wrists pulled free of her bottom; yanking up behind her knees.

Head coming up, chin to her knees; she blinked at the sight. “I did it?” She thought her arms wouldn’t be long enough to- “I _did_ it.” And if a pitifully grateful smile of success broke free amongst the tears, she couldn’t be blamed; it was that pleasant release of energy that she needed. “I can do this.” She could stretch her legs up towards her face, even whilst wearing a now very dirty, short skirt; who cared?

“Okay, one-" she managed, "one more time.”

Eyes on the prize, neck taut; she pulled her hands free of her feet, deciding not to focus on the inflamed skin at her wrists, or the way it had broken in patches as she fell onto her side; sucking in a breath. _One small step for mankind, one giant step for Felicity Smoak. _Relief made her head swim. _Shorten the wind up, I’m going home._

Home. _Could_ she even go home? She didn’t think so but thinking right now, wasn’t on the height of her agenda. _I will think more when I am elsewhere_. It was a plan.

Stumbling to her feet- _and how does that even work? Stumbling to my feet, how does a person stumble to their- not the time_. She part-jogged, tip-toed, and hopped her way past a roofless area - _this is not a safe-zone_ \- feeling her skirt plastered to her thighs like a soggy rag as she did. She shuddered, _ugh_.

And it got better because she was just nearing the corner of a small building that looked like the home of a serial killer, _at this point I wouldn’t be surprised_, when she heard footsteps.

The clap of heels.

_And _the pat of boots.

Both coming from different directions.

Voice seizing somewhere between her sternum and larynx, a dumb stare into the dark maze of abandoned places was her choice. Straight out pre-empting fight or flight with ‘frozen stiff’. _I win best ‘stupid’ of the year_.

Then, of course… the tears. Encore, encore.

Face scrunching tight, _oh no_, shoulders shifting high, _please_, panic of all things - not fear exactly, not anger; but the _shame_ of being unable to equal herself to the task at hand - had her running. _I don’t know what to do._ It had her ducking under a tarp and through loose wood. When she tripped, she kicked at something that sounded like brass - loud and effective in revealing her whereabouts - and panicked gasps against the sound of her own racing pulse, made her head throb; made her stumble to the right-

And into a wide-open area. Total exposure, even in the dark.

She gulped. _Inviting_. “Nuh uh.” Sucking in a breath, _there'll be another way; I can do this_, she just had to turn back to where she came from.

But then a shadow shot out of the area to her left; man sized, terrifying and fast and she realised: she _couldn’t_ do this.

Shrieking, she sprinted into the spacious lot; uncaring of the hot friction on the pads of her feet from blitzing across the area faster than she thought she could run, because-

_He’s going to catch me._

She wasn’t fast enough – she could hear him behind her; heavy footsteps thudding in tangent to her own tip-taps and closing in, too quickly for any hope.

Richard would catch her, hurt her.

_I can’t take pain._

Moira Queen would Kill her.

_I’m not brave._

Her chest hitched; thighs burning as she tried to pick up speed.

_I’m not important._

Why did she get it into her head that she might be? Could be? That there might be a place for her there, where wrongs are righted. A space, a position, a waiting piece of nothing that could be _something_. An opening revealed by a crooked dial, a cracked key, a broken gear; a place where she could slot in.

_Oliver_ _Queen_.

Hood.

_I wanted to ask-_

She didn’t have the right.

Being smart - being curious - had led her to this place.

_He needs to know._

But he never would. She’d held back and now she wasn’t getting out of this. She’d failed.

Then a body slammed into her back and somewhere in her subconscious, she knew that this was it; the moment. But the rest of her didn’t get then memo.

She fought because, _I don’t want to die_.

Straining away from the weight behind her, from the encroaching arms - hands lashing back at him - it was easier than she thought it would be; except a hand grasped hold of her wrist, pulling her back into his hold. It made her stumble, made her cry out, made-

Made Richard _pause_.

Ignoring the absurdity of that, it took no thought at all for her foot to shoot out behind her and stamp on one of his. The responding grunt - the jerk of surprise from terrifyingly strong arms - was an odd mix of low and rasping.

Familiar-

_Stop thinking and get moving!_ Staggering, she rushed away - anywhere that wasn’t backwards - but immediately tripped over her own feet like a total noob. Knees striking against the cold ground, hands slapping next to them; the pain made her blank very briefly on the world.

So, she really wasn’t expecting Richard’s beyond speedy recovery.

One very powerful arm abruptly wrapped around her waist, trapping one of hers against herself before pulling her bodily up- _up, up and away_, as easily as a man his size would a child. Broad chest and shoulders curled around her, muttering something that the pounding in her ears wouldn’t allow her to hear as his other arm closed in.

It finally hit her that there was no fabric. His arm, his body; he wasn’t wearing normal clothes, no cotton, no polyester. No… skin.

_Leather?_

It was cold to the touch on the gloved hand that swiftly covered her stunned mouth.

Gently.

The padded forearm against the touch of her fingers, the thick jacket behind her, the hood tickling her scalp, the _silence_ and careful control of each and every movement; it was points on a star chart, steps on a manual, connections in a profile that made her _stop_.

Lifted free from the ground - back against his front - he carried her soundlessly into the shadows; a warm shield at her spine as her brain took it in. Him. This.

_Oh._ Adrenaline ebbed and the proverbial light switched on._ Ohhhhh._

She was **safe**.

His gait slowed before he stopped completely, placing her down in the ground in front of him without removing his hand from her mouth until-

“Ssh.” A whisper over the way she was shaking; _it is still cold people_. “Sshh, ssh," quick hands took stock of her wrists and the way she flinched when the barest graze of his leather made them _burn_, "_sssh_.” Not an order or a plea or a ‘_quiet_’. It fanned her hair away from her throat, soft against her cheek. “It’s okay.”

It was concern. Tenderness, emphasised by the extreme and earnest compassion in the fingers that _touched_ her shoulders; in the hands that turned her about to face him, in the body that kept her out of the limited lights in the area.

“You’re okay.” In the way he hadn’t seemed to realise that she wasn’t struggling anymore. “It’s okay.”

Green leather.

“Y-you’re…” No voice modulator? Was that his usual thing? Did he honestly go _vigilante-ing_ around the city without one? _Please tell me you don’t. _“You-” Her mouth wouldn’t work. Her hands wouldn’t move away from her chest. She couldn’t blink.

She was too relieved.

But _his_ hands lifted - palms flat out and plaintive in front of her - and there was something brittle and small in the whisper-grate of his voice as he moved his head left to right before he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

_Well, why would you?_ It had never crossed her mind. _Silly_. Oliver was silly.

Oliver was wonderful.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He repeated for some reason, voice deepening; head lowering. Sober. "Here."

Quick as a flash, something sharp snapped through the plastic ties at her wrists.

Brain catching up, her fingers moved to smooth over the area.

He was frowning down at her.

Maybe because she was staring _up_ at him. _It’s you._ Of course it was; she knew that. But seeing it made it different.

He looked… taller. Leather shouldn’t do that- _oh, he’s been slouching_. Lowering his shoulders and depressing whenever he wasn’t in his night suit. For others, he deliberately made himself smaller when he was so much bigger. ‘Larger than life’ came to mind, even though she knew he didn’t feel that way about himself. But he was still the same; still lonely, still a mystery. Different, but the same.

She needed, wanted more than this; she needed to see him in the light.

But he was also seeing _her_. Wet skirt - skin - dirty blouse, loose hair, tears and sweat coating her face, shoe-less… embarrassment made her feet take her back- back the only step available to her and into the wood behind her.

He _followed_.

“Wait," urgency coated his voice, "Felicity-” Clearly thinking she was backing off, his hand shot up - worry laced in his deeply effective voice - and his fingers were pulling the hood off his head before she could ask, _are you out of your mind?!_ “Felicity,” blue eyes - achingly dissimilar to his mother’s - absurdly mellow features on a face she now knew intimidated hardened criminals on a nightly basis, and a jawline that drove her crazy, trapped her in place, “it’s me.”

It rendered her mute. _Further_ mute to her current muteness.

Had he really taken off his hood without a second thought, just to make her feel safe?

He already was, already did. Does. Did he not know that? That every time he entered a room, something inside of her _breathed_. That when he came to her with bizarre requests for aid, he saved her from boredom and worse; the sheer fear of living a pointless life. That when he spoke to her, he was confirming something she didn’t think was possible; that she lived in the same world as someone so bright, so alarmingly charming and so deeply beautiful that his personal scars were aesthetically pleasing instead of psychologically alarming.

It all conveyed the whisper of a promise yet to be spoken aloud; that maybe Felicity was meant for more in life than being an office IT girl for men and women who’d she’d long since accepted would never appreciate nor want her presence.

So, yes; it was like looking into the sun. A sun that didn’t burn. And he had no idea.

But there was something in the way he searched her face with his own half-shadowed by the night. The way the inquisitive slope of his brow tapered, the way enlarged pupils dominated eyes that had turned blue-black in the night, the realisation that made them _shine_ and the hard ridge of muscle and bone, loosening with a ripple of something that might be wonder; it told her that he saw her lack of surprise for what it was.

“You know.” Eyes searching to and from her own, they narrowed down on her face; whatever he'd discovered completely overtaking that he'd just found her in an abandoned warehouse district with her wrists bound. “You already…” he nodded to himself, seeing or hearing or realising something she didn’t understand. “You know.”

_It wasn’t so hard to figure out, you know, after accepting that normal people don’t ask random IT girls to crack military coding and you really do stand out_. _It just made everything so unbelievably clear-_

“You came for me.” She hadn’t meant to say that to him; cracked and needy with glasses partially slanted on her face. It was infuriatingly exposing, the soft way she said it; shocked, puzzled, happy and unbelievably grateful. "You... you came." And maybe she wouldn’t be quite so _all of that_ if she were wearing shoes.

But it caused a moment of silence, where Oliver looked at her so intently, unblinkingly, that she thought he might break. Split right down the centre. As if her words had _stopped_ him in the same way a punch to the gut might. _Pleasant_. Or touched him someplace that he couldn't reach. As if it was as much a surprise for him as his presence there was to her.

But then she swallowed; her hands coming up to her throat in a bid for warmth and it seemed to set him off.

“You knew I would.” It was so quietly spoken, but she could still hear his certainty and-

_Wait, I knew he would?_ “I…” _Did I? _

"You knew." Searching her, a modicum of doubt made him look painfully young. "Didn't you?"

Defenceless against that, she told him the truth. “I hoped you would.”

“You,” he licked his lips, “hoped.”

Like hope was simultaneously dirty - shameful - and precious to him.

“Well, I left my laptop for you to find,” _because clearly, I’ve watched one too many movies_, “just in case.”

He nodded once and she was appreciative for the way he cut right to the meat of a subject; it helped her concentrate. “And a GPS tracker in your shoe.”

For the first time since she’d woken, the smallest of small smiles loosened the muscles in her jaw. “You really went looking.”

A brow arched, some slight confusion on the harsher lines of his face; absolutely contradicting the entirety of his leather wardrobe. “Hadn’t we made a date?”

She blinked. “A- a date?” _I’m sorry, a what? _Had she been asleep?_ Since when had we-_

"In your office." Despite the imposing sight he’d perfected of himself, Oliver whispering this to her was divinity in progress. “You said we’d talk about Walter…”

“O-oh, right.” That. _Not a date, like an actual date-_

“And…” his eyes flickered, “wine.”

She sucked in a breath, lashes fluttering at her tremble; his voice still a husky echo on her skin. “And have wine.”

It was a _maybe_. A maybe-date.

_Is this really happening?_

The furrow at his brow - the one she’d been caught staring at before - was slow to come, as was his brief head-shake. “Why aren’t you surprised by any of this?” A note of timbre in his tone - one smooth, rough and pensive - resonated through her. The same eyes she’d watched reel her in - watched detach from emotion, watched play games, gather intelligence and see right the hell through her - dropped over her body in awed confusion; lingering on the way her hands rubbed at her forearms. “Why aren’t you…”

Something was troubling him, and she was too curious to voice that she was too cold to stand here like this, that she asked. “What?”

Still looking at her hands, he leaned forwards just enough to cover her completely and- _oh_. He was cutting off the too-cold breeze but she could barely draw in breath. Did his every move have to be so...

“You aren't scared.” He finally answered.

Of the situation or of… him?

Her exhale was shaky. “I’ve been scared all night.” So close, it was difficult to make out his features, but she saw his throat work at her words. _Oh, Oliver_. They were friends now, even if it was a shallow thing; yet he _felt_ for her. She was sure that the reality of him being a vigilante and everything that came with it would hit her at some point, but- “This is the first time since I woke up, tied in that chair,” a muscle in his neck jumped, “that I’ve felt safe.”

And she looked him in the eye as she said it. He needed to hear it, because she didn’t know this side of Oliver; she only knew the way he’d spoken about himself before. The way he’d insinuated that he was more burden than gift to his family and that was- _it’s so sad_.

Breathing in, he just… looked back.

Everything about him was hard; the way he stood, spoke and moved. The way he thought.

But then his gaze _softened_. It deserved its own sentence for she'd never seen a man's eyes do that. Turn into a liquid that was solid, that was warm.

It made her feel too; less butterflies this time, more electrical sparks. _Is he feeling anything like this?_ She doubted it, and it didn't matter; he'd come to save her. She was being saved by a real-life vigilante.

But the reminder of her being taken - the way her voice shook at then cold and her hands braced against herself at the chill - took him quickly down a route called reality. “Let's get you out of here.”

She nodded, chin teeth chattering. “And towards some shoes.” Glancing down at herself, she amended. “And more... clothes.” A shower. Ice cream. "And maybe," she eyed him uncertainly, "we should talk?"

About. So. Fracking. Much.

Nodding back, that same softness infecting his mouth and in the suit, it was impossible to detract from in any way. Startling.

_Pretty_.

Until his gaze was already fixed on something else. “What is that?”

Gloved fingers brushed at the top button of her shirt-

“He, ah…” the night air barely seemed to add the frost on the skin of her collar bone and further _down_. “Remind me not to re-watch Lethal Weapon anytime soon.” It was a weak joke.

Not that Mel Gibson’s torture scene wasn’t all kinds of awesome to watch him break free from, it was just that… _now, it’s real_. That had _sort_ _of_ happened to her. There would be no off button, no smile on her face when Riggs took down the bad guy in a way she never could, no getting up for that glass of wine. _Good thing we’ve passed Christmas_.

And beneath that gorgeous granite jaw, she saw Oliver reign in something quite powerful. Unreadable.

_Um_. She went with her gut. “It’s okay.”

The tip of his fingers touched her neck as they curled back in, as his hands covered her own that were chafing at her biceps. “We need to go.”

"Yes. Yes, we do. There's-" She forgotten about Richard. "There's someone else here."

"I took care of him."

Mouth opening in an _oh_, brows rising just a tad, she whispered. "Kay."

But his mother. How was she supposed to explain about his mother- _you promised him. It was before I knew he was the Hood but I still promised. he's probably going to shoot me with an arrow, but..._

She watched Oliver straighten; watched him breathe in and drop any trace of softness on his face, and until now - until he took it away - she hadn't realised how much of a difference it had made. He was still the same guy who fumbled over lies and charmed her with real smiles when he needed something, but it was still effective. _So much to talk about._ Where did he learn that? It was a transition - a fall - back into The Hood-

She could hear footsteps. Almost- _heels!_

It was just seconds. Seconds to act, to move and Felicity couldn’t say what happened next; couldn’t explain why the Hood standing to attention - his fingers twitching - made her _choose_, or why a profound feeling of sadness, hurt and heart had her gasping. 

Just that she reacted.

“Get back!” Both hands shoved at the large, hard - _oh my god, rock solid_ \- chest that was the Hood’s, with everything she had - a boatload of fear and a triple shot of affection - just as she glimpsed the barrel end of a pistol poke out to the right of where they’d stood.

Just as a muzzle flare, a crack through the air so loud she didn’t really hear it at all, and something like panic - red hot and terrifying - made her whirl around and duck back into the shadows.

She couldn't let Oliver's mother shoot him, thinking he was an enemy. A threat. Not Oliver. _Rude_.

She couldn't let Oliver be blindsided, not like she was. 

_Oh, this is bad. It's a bad, bad situation-_

"Drop it." Practically a growl followed by a step forward, a ragged breath. "I said drop it!"

There was a clatter, _the pistol?_ “Please.” Was Moira pleading? Felicity had only lost seconds of sound; was Oliver really so terrifying in the hood? “Please don’t-” 

“Shut- shut up!” _So he does have a modulator_, but he sounded whipped. “Don’t move!”

Breathing like she’d just been sprinting - _never in a million years_ \- Felicity tentatively lifted her head from where she’d crouched, hands feeling for the cold wall as she began to rise-

Pain erupted across her shoulders, from one end to the next. Hissing with the _fire_ of it, she froze where she was half-turned; blinking like a madwoman, managing to look at mother and son… _not good_.

Moira was stood like she’d had one too many brandy’s and she was cupping her arm- her _bleeding_ hand.

_Had Oliver_... he stood like something out of the kind of fiction she kept _completely_ to herself, _thank you very much_. The Hood had drawn on his bow and Felicity had no problem putting two and two together.

He’d shot back at his mother, had knocked the gun out of her hand. She'd probably reached for it again, underestimating the vigilante's speed before he had her in his sights. Reflexively, probably. Justifiably. But he shot at his _mother_… for her. Why else would he shoot her?

_“I’m a little nervous.”_

_Still a relative stranger to her, Oliver looked exactly as he should; uncomfortable but considerate. Again, awkward. “So am I.”_

_It was a humbling moment of honesty. “About the party?” _

_“I need it go well. I mean, it will go well. I just…” _

_“Your family’s been through a lot. As have you. It’s understandable that you’d want it to be a success.”_

He would have let his mother shoot him first before even thinking of pulling any kind of trigger in defence. The only difference here was Felicity’s presence, which… it was awful. _He shot at his mother because of me_. And his mother didn’t even know that she’d shot at her own son who she’d declared to be capable of cold bloodied murder for. 

Tragic.

It was too much for anyone who'd loved a person who's real face they'd glimpsed in the dark. It explained the way he ground his now bared teeth, the way he shifted from one leg to the other, the way he stared - eyes wide, near-frantic and eerily visible; even beneath the shadow of his hood - at-

_At me?_

Chest heaving, his eyes flew from Felicity to his mother and back again. “You shot her.” As if he couldn’t believe it and the modulator made him sound like a beast. “You _shot_ her.”

Who shot who?

“You don’t understand.” It was nothing at all like the sure, cool, yet trembling way Moira had spoken earlier; but Felicity couldn’t comment because- _why is my shoulder warm? _“Please, I have to protect my family-”

“I said,” low toned, deadly serious and loud enough to make his mother flinch, Oliver grated out the words, “stop talking.”

Felicity gaped.

Maybe he couldn’t hear a sound over his own shock either. Maybe her pleas fell on deaf ears. Maybe, like Felicity had when he’d taken off his hood, he needed to process the sight of his mother with a gun pointed at them. He deserved that. It was just- _I thought he'd_... she thought he'd have dropped his guard with his mother, the way he'd-

_The way he did with me._

Scared and bleeding, with eyes as wide eyed as her son’s; Mrs Queen’s mouth closed. As if sensing the alpha in the pack - it certainly wasn’t her - she crouched down towards the ground in her skirt; almost in supplication, with her good hand raised in surrender. “Alright.” Shaking, her breaths were visible in the night air. “I’m down.”

It was as if he’d run a marathon. “Don’t move.” Chest rapidly rising and falling, he loosened the bow and retracted the arrow before striding to where Felicity couldn’t seem to fully stand.

“I don’t know what-” her throat closed when his arm snaked around her back, pulling her against him so that her shoulder dug into his pectoral, _oh, hello_. Breath catching, she was pulled along for the ride when he rose to his feet and- “Oh, _ow_.” There it was again; the pain. “What the frack.” Wincing, _what’s happening_, she glanced up at him for an explanation and her heart stuttered.

He was so close.

He was so close, and he looked a little jarred by that fact.

He was so close, and he looked like he was about to lose it. “Breathe.” It was in the fast puffs of breath against her cheek, the sheen of oncoming sweat on his chin, the stop and start of his hand on her arm - as if he was having difficulty with their proximity and, _hey; the one time they’d been this close, Oliver hadn’t strictly been himself_ \- and the way something deep inside him, something terrified and affected by his mother’s actions - the _boy_ in him - shone out of his eyes. “Breathe through it.”

“Through,” like being hypnotised, _by him_, “what?”

Lips pressing together, he sent her a look so filled with emotions all clamouring for release - so overwhelmed - that it almost distracted her from it.

Almost.

“_Ngh_.” It was too much to ignore this time. "Okay." She licked dry lips, letting Oliver turn her about; let him keep watch on his mother who still knelt on the floor. "Okay. I've been shot, haven't I?" 

When he answered, strained didn't cut how he sounded. “I’ve got you.”

"That's nice." She breathed. "But it's starting to really hurt..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three more chapters to this arc and I plan to get them done by Christmas. HOPEFULLY *PLEASE JESUS, DO ME A SOLID*  
And, um........ review? What did you think?


	11. And Then There Were Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Motorcycles, bullet wounds and a Foundry, oh my.  
It's the start of a team of three. It's the making of a legacy and a move towards something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's coming to a close now, this arc. I look forward to hearing what you guys think; fingers crossed that I can update again over Christmas, yes?  
So, felicity's feeling too much right now to fully comprehend the huge deal that the hood reveal is, but that will come later.  
Also, Oliver needs time, kay? This isn't his full reaction. Enjoy!

At any other time, leather situated between her freezing thighs - covering what she could feel to be the kind of body that men who worship at the altar of Men’s Health magazine would sell their souls for - whilst seated on a roaring motorcycle, would have been every spectacles-wearing nerd’s _dream_ to experience.

“Are we stopping?” The sentence ended there because there were only so many words that she could speak at any given time without sounding like she’d been, you know; _shot_. “This is where we get off the bike, right?” _Please say it is_. She wasn’t above begging.

She _was_ afraid she’d throw up on him if the ride lasted any longer. Worse than that, she was afraid she wouldn’t _care_. And she _did_ care, very much; even though any possible chance in hell of whatever the frack _could_ have been - in the space between being asked out to his Christmas party and wine soaked green leather - that had been rendered null and unthinkable in the face and light of his mother’s duplicity and Felicity’s involvement in its reveal.

She. Cared.

And... so did he.

The way he'd been with her, the way he'd worried, the way he was screaming without a sound.

But he was on edge. Capitol E. “I should be taking you to the hospital.” The growl of the now stationary death trap beneath them, was _just_ loud enough to make her have to strain to hear him. Luckily, he’d pulled into an alley between an old Foundry and _another_ abandoned building, because a moment longer on the road and she’d have fallen sideways. _Off_ his motorcycle, _let’s not forget that_. She’d been shot and had been placed swiftly onto the back of a mighty-fine, mighty-fast motorcycle_. Of course. Of course, he rides one- because he was hot and a bad boy and hot bad-boys ride motor-_ “I shouldn’t be bringing you here.”

Not this again. _I’d like to get up now_, but she was afraid of moving. “We agreed.”

And he really did sound different from his day to day ‘Oliver’. “No, we didn’t.” Like gravel but without the grate. Softer.

It made her spine tingle. “Then, I convinced you.” This was a very different side of Oliver to the man who'd come to her for help before and she was trying not to let her own tone be infected by the antagonistic pain. “I can be very convincing.”

“I can’t _be_ convinced.”

_Oh, but you can_. “And yet, here we are.”

“I know better.” His words were rough, rolling through his back and into her chest; fizzling like champagne bubbles and very briefly numbing the fiery pain at her shoulder. “This isn’t right.”

“Too late for that now.” She patted his shoulder with the strength of a field mouse, feeling anxiety bleed into the air about her. “Just need to- need to get off this bike.” _Yep, yep._

Cutting the engine - as if he’d been preparing to haul ass to the hospital anyway - he didn’t say anything, and though she figured he was of the more reserved kind of man - the kind who’d hunt down men and women featured on the list of wealthy criminals that Walter had given her, hell bent on destroying what little goodness was left in the city - him not speaking now, with the lack of noise, was more deafening than him screaming whole sentences at her.

“This isn’t your fault.” It was the first thing that had come to mind and since she’d come to trust her instincts with this man in the past two months, she just went with it. “Okay? It’s not-”

“Can you stand?”

She blinked. Was that why he hadn’t moved, because it would dislodge her? “Um, if I say _no_,” she furtively checked, “will you think that’s your fault too?”

The _yes_ was written in his body language as he ground his teeth. “Come on.”

When he shifted to stand, she winced so hard, he felt it; stiffening in place. _Crap_. The faltering touch of leather gloves against her hands made her jolt and they immediately retracted.

She closed her eyes, forehead bumping against his quiver of arrows_. I could die_.

Oliver was careful about touch; he avoided it like the plague and in instances where he wouldn’t or couldn’t, it was rarely for himself. He, generally, wasn’t the instigator. Yet here he was, trying to help her and- _here I am, flinching. _She couldn’t blame that on the cold anymore.

Not when Oliver had forced her to wear his mother’s coat. _Oh yes; that is a thing that happened_. Seething and jumpy and thrown, The Hood had _ordered_ his mother to give him her coat, eyes covered by the hood. With it, he’d wrapped Felicity in it like a burrito before picking her up and dashing across the tarmac:

_“I can walk!” She yelped into his shoulder._

_He didn’t respond._

_Silence was probably a close friend of his. Accepting defeat in how the strength of his arms kept her from being jolted barely an inch here and there, she had to give it him. They were moving pretty fast. Still- “So humiliating.”_

_“You’ve. Been. Shot.”_

_Despite how he sounded, she couldn’t help but think that his bark was worse than his bite. “I know.” Voice quivering, she swallowed, “I was there.”_

_His breaths were harsh, and it wasn’t because of her weight. “It took you over a _minute_ to realise that you had been.”_

_“…Okay?”_

_A sound left him; aggressive, aggrieved and unpleasant, one she hadn’t heard before and it reminded her that she was arguing with a man with more than one mask. “This is serious.”_

_“Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” Talking took her mind of the _burn_. “You saying stuff and me disagreeing with the stuff you say?” His grip tightened and she’d wondered if he was just going to leave her there out of spite. “We should probably figure that out now instead of later.” She didn’t know this side of Oliver yet; who knew what he’d do? Their dynamic had changed and with change… well, not everyone could enjoy alterations. “I talk. I talk a lot.” She grunted over a fresh wave of pain. _

_“I had noticed.”_

_“At inappropriate times.”_

_“That too.”_

_“It’s a problem that won’t ever change; you need to know this.”_

_“It’s safe to say that I already do.”_

The fact that he’d bantered _back_ with her, in the suit, had told her that he was trying to take her mind off the bullet in her shoulder.

Still, he was _not_ a happy camper and she felt him take a steadying breath before palming the death-grip she had on the front of his jacket; loosening her fingers as he lifted her hand. “On three.” Raising her uninjured arm over his shoulder, it draped her bodily against his back- _oh, he smells good_. “one, two-”

He rose fast, taking her up with him.

“Oh- _ow!_” Loss of blood made the trip unpleasant, but if he’d gone slow, she might not have made it. Breathe. _Breathe through it_, he’d said. Through the dizzy spell, through the pain. Considering his vocation, she figured he knew what he was talking about.

“I’ve got you.” And he did have her; she must have blanked out. He was already off the bike, his hip bumping into her side and one of his arms - his hand - had a tight grip on her bicep, her fingers digging into the leather at his shoulder.

So close, she heard his swallow, his shallow breath, the thud in his chest; the hood, a barrier between his face and her eyes. “How much pain are you in?”

Squinty-eyed, she sent him a _look_.

“Felicity.” Like everything between them in the past half hour, he spoke gruffly. Almost curtly. Urgently.

_Afraid_.

And his modulator wasn’t on. _And_ in just speaking her name, he seemed to relay a whole sentence.

“So. Much. Pain.” Like nothing she’d ever felt or wanted to feel before. “You?”

A twitch in his hood. “What?” Whispered confusion might be her new favourite thing from him.

“How much pain are _you_ in?” She whispered back and was she _really_ prolonging this?

But it hadn’t been _Felicity’s_ mother who’d shot at them…

Head dipping to see her, she caught how bright - wild, burned - his eyes could be considering the blue of them. “Are you actually asking me this question?”

“Right.” Lips pressing together, she nodded. “Good point.” At any other time, it would have been funny. “I’ll shut up now.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Surprise made a blustered laugh escape her, because he meant every word - there was little to no humour present in his voice, but also zero insult - and it immediately had her eyes watering. _OW_. “Okay,” breathless and winded; her free hand fluttered for him to _act_, “your move.”

_Make all the moves_, and she was a fan of his moves, especially if the moves got her out of the alley and towards some really strong pain killers-

“I’m going to lift you off the bike, okay?” Moving before she could respond, he bent quickly; one arm wrapping around the small of her back-

“O-oh.” Lift her, he did; like she was as heavy as a plastic bag and made of tissue paper. _Wow_.

Then his other arm secured under her legs. “Hold onto me.”

“I imagined you saying that under different circumstances.”

He stilled.

_Um_. “P-platonic circumstances.” It was the closest he’d ever been, _like white on rice_, and she couldn’t even see his face; _stupid hood_.

Not that he’d _care_. But catching sight of his jaw, the flex of his chin… she wondered. Then _stopped_ wondering when he moved again because, _it’s unthinkable, right?_

Once she was free of the bike, he didn’t put her back down and she didn’t complain; if manhandling her reduced the tightness of him, the unfamiliar shake of his voice, she’d let him get away with a lot. Plus, free ride where she didn’t have to worry about falling on her face.

Or crying.

But she did speak, and it was with an unforeseen longing. “I wanted to enjoy that.” She whispered, taking her last look at his bike as he strode away from it and into the dark.

The fingers on her knees _pressed_.

* * *

“Put her on the table.”

“No, It’s too cold.”

“Oliver-”

“John, she’s freezing.”

“You should have taken her to the hospital-”

“Right.” For some reason it _hurt _to form words now and maybe he heard it; maybe the hiss through her teeth was so much louder than she realised, because Oliver went from zero to sixty in a second. He moved fast enough to blur her surroundings, _but I wanted to look around_. Not that she thought she could take in the Hood's lair right now. “That wouldn’t raise any questions at _all_.”

She could practically _feel_ the silent conversation going on over her head as Oliver lowered her down, butt first, onto a stool. A stool with a quilt on it that felt like pure heaven for her tush and damp skirt, which was perfect because the air in the Foundry basement was almost as frigid as the air outside. She made an involuntary _ah_ sound and moments later, Oliver’s hands - the Hood’s gloves - were lifting the sides of the cushy throw over legs. When he pulled back from her, he darted out of sight to somewhere behind her before he could look her in the eyes.

That was when she caught her first _real_ look at John Diggle as the man behind the man under the hood.

“Uh.” She blinked behind her skewed glasses, a little bit like a demented owl. “Hi there.”

Yes, she was smiling. Yes, the parlour of her skin was wan at best. Yes, she was sweating and dirty.

But _he_\- Mr John Diggle was tall, dark and extremely large. _I believe the term is, built. _Like a brick. His eyes were chocolate. His hands were three times as large as hers. Yet, there was nothing remotely intimidating about him. _Papa bear,_ that was her first impression. And for some inexplicable reason, whatever he glimpsed in her smile – despite the clear concern in him – made him shake his head in an almost indulgent fashion, the side of his mouth gently curling.

“Got yourself into a spot of trouble?” He murmured, reaching to secure the quilt perfectly to her thighs, right her glasses by pushing the bridge up her nose because her arms seemed incapable, and pretty much faffing around her like a mother hen, which was oddly fitting.

So, head dropping ever so slightly to nod; she accidentally headbutted his hands. _Oopsie_. “Mm hm.” _Daisy_.

Concern turned to worry. He straightened, following Oliver somewhere behind her with his eyes as he rolled up his sleeves. “Does somebody want to fill me in?”

_Not really-_

Oliver stepped into view. “Not really.” _Spooky_. But very much like her, Oliver’s every move was tight. Also like her, it was pain induced. _Unlike_ her, the pain wasn’t physical, and his movements were quick, as opposed to her dull attempts. “We need to get the bullet out.”

Bullet… _out_?

“Excuse me?” Could John’s eyes bug out any farther? Did _hers_ look just like that?

_Can we go back to getting the bullet out?_

It would mean… having to go _in_.

“She’s been shot.” Oliver repeated and- _no shit Sherlock_. Still, Felicity nodded like a lemming as he moved around her. “The bullet is still inside.”

He left her sight again.

_It is _still_ inside_. No matter how many times she thought it, the words didn’t make sense.

Though maybe that was why she was sweating. Or why she was peering up at Oliver with blurry, shaky vision. _Is this shock? Am I in shock? _

“Jesus.” Mr Diggle’s eyes homed in on the offending area - like her shoulder had committed a crime, _funny_ \- and maybe it was that old chivalry “I didn’t…”

Pulling a face because, _ow_, she squinted at him. “The blood didn’t give it away?”

Deadpan didn’t begin to describe the genius way John’s face seemed to fall into the ubiquitous, straight man’s _you’re not funny’_. “It isn’t the first thing that-” Those shrewd eyes fixed on her face, on her tears; on how she’d been silently – but very noticeably – crying since before Oliver picked her up off the motorcycle. How she’d started to rock backwards and forwards, inch by tiny inch. “That comes to mind.”

She wanted to laugh or do something that didn’t involve secreting water with enzymes, but her voice took a turn for hoarse and instead of sending him her most charming - and possibly most demented - look serving to put him at ease from below, she ended up bowing her head, bunching her shoulders, the blades shifting-

It knocked her sick.

_Fire_. It scorched _inside_ the tiny hole in her upper back, rippling into the surrounding musculature as it clenched and cramped, blowing out her calm - her sense of self - when it shot north to the back of her skull. Vision blanking, senses fritzing; she felt her mouth open and maybe she screamed. Shrieked. Shouted. Cried out. Something.

Her ears popped.

An odd weightlessness took over; a skewed moment of misperception. A void in sensation.

Meanwhile the pain was no longer a beat from a drum; it was a _horn_. It blared. It told her it was here to stay; demanded she take the consequences for slipping deliberately deeper into the cracks of Starling city, into the nittier grittier blackness of her home, where she’d known a man in green waited, casting a verdant glow.

But this was worse than she’d imagined, being shot; there was a hole in her, a hole caused by a bullet.

And they were going to _dig_ it out.

“Get the advanced kit.” _Oliver?_ “And the oxycodone hydrochloride.” Had she fallen sideways? Her weight had tilted… there were hands on her; a chest pressing against her arm before the world righted. _Warm_. “John.” It wasn’t a bark, but it was certainly more cutting than… than anyway he’d been with her.

There was a pause in sound where she took deep breaths, lashes fluttering through each one; unwilling to inform Oliver that his rippling pectorals where adding hell to her fire. _Hah. Hellfire_.

But he was keeping her up. Again, she couldn’t appreciate it.

“She needs to go to the hospital.” John stressed and he couldn’t seem to appreciate the situation either.

“Can’t.” Teeth grit, hair falling over her face; she did her absolute best not to lean into Oliver whose face she couldn’t see, and failed so pathetically she felt her insides shrivel alongside her remaining need to give a crap about what the two handsomest men she’d ever met thought about her less than perfect control. “Love to but, can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

Lips pressed together, an undignified grunt - _a mother fracker_ \- brought her had right back up. “Isn’t it obvious?” She didn’t even have it in her to glare. “If I… If I go to the hospital,” or look beyond the green arm covering over her collar bone, “it’ll put exposure onto Mrs Queen.” And it would be too easy to the connect the dots from there, too easy for the man behind the curtain to put two and two together and not miss. There were things Oliver needed to know before that might happen.

But she felt him _freeze _at the mention of his mother and maybe throwing up wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Mrs Queen?” John muttered somewhere about her head. “What does your mother have to-”

“Later.” Speaking of the obvious, if Oliver’s tone tightened any further, his voice would break; possibly for the third time in his life. “I don’t know everything.”

“Oliver-”

_“John.”_ From the corner of her eye, she saw it. She saw what made a man like John follow a man like Oliver. “The. Kit.”

The sound of his voice, the innate strength that she could feel from him, the way he _looked_ at John. ‘Looked’ was too small a word. Both primal, lethal and soldier; all rolled into one. Heart and power and soul crushed beneath a venire of _I don’t matter_. But there was something else, something… more. In Oliver. A something that had tugged on Felicity like a leash to a dog and she’d been helpless against the pull. Almost preternatural.

No matter how much John Diggle’s muscles flexed, no matter if his jaw clenched or his pulse fluttered, no matter how much he disagreed; he wasn’t the one who chose. The one who moved. He either agreed or he stepped aside. “Alright. You’ll explain it to me later though.” He threw back at them as he hightailed it away from them; there was no room for if’s or maybe’s or arguments.

“Won’t that be fun.” It was the barest whisper at the side of her head, breath blowing wisps of hair against her face and a breathless giggle left her.

He _couldn’t_ be funny. He was so many other things already, wonderful things. Being funny too? How would she cope?

He set her straight on the stool, “here,” and lifted a glass of water to her mouth, _when did he get that_, “drink some please.” Manners. Manners galore. Lots of please, many a thank-you when it came to Oliver Queen. “We’ll get you something for the pain.” It was a whisper-rumble that had her refocusing on him partially bowed in front of her.

“Wait.”

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Not that." Though that was nice. Sipping the water, her fingers tripped over the glass as he pulled it back before shaking her head. “Not yet.” She rasped.

“What?”

“If you give me something now,” her hands curled into the quilt so that he couldn’t see them shake, “I won’t be able to concentrate.”

“That doesn’t matter right now.” His brow came together in the most perfect crease. “You’re in pain.”

Eyes watering, nodding helplessly; her voice evolved into its supreme state of self: a squeak. “Tell me something I don’t know!”

“I underestimated everything about you.” He responded so fast that she wanted to internally debate whether wearing a hood and badly applied green paint around his eyes, altered his personality at all. “But none of it surprises me.” A breath with the weight of a lake left him, voice husky in its wake. “Not the way it should.”

Momentarily winded, she stared at him.

…Did he have to look at her like that? Piercing, unreadable and unblinking; it was distracting to say the least-

_Ah_. He was distracting her. _Focus_. “There-” _OW_. Swallow. Inhale. “There are things you need to know.”

“Things that can _wait_.”

The control was visible this time, which meant anything but. Oliver was resisting. There were things he knew he didn’t want to hear. She’d been shit by his mother; facing that… it was more than most people could bare in one night, never mind having to be the one to pull the bullet back out.

So, she met his eyes wilfully; the tremble in her voice, revealing. “Not these things.” He couldn’t go home - to the Queen mansion - after this, not knowing. Not now.

Besides, weren’t they supposed to be meeting about this anyway? Over… a glass of wine? Right, because that chance hadn’t died quicker than my last date. A story for another time.

What had she expected?

It was difficult to know though, what with his jaw clenching, with his unblinking near glare of a stare. “_Felicity_-”

“Oliver.” She cut in, not feeling brave. Or hopeful. Or important. Simply feeling for the man in front of her. The man who’d suffered. The man who’d gone through a five-year episode of what she could only imagine to be a harrowing journey of self-discovery, to come out the other side a hero.

Only, it felt as if he painted a villain in place of a man. Or something to that degree because, straightening to his full height, he looked _down_ at her. And proceeded to shutter up and close shop on her. Either it was too much or he was… she didn’t know. She didn’t know _him_. And his expression carefully blanked of any emotion save one. One she suspected, lay at the core of The Hood. How else could he shoot arrows into people night after night, where else did he get his energy from if not from this emotion? If she wasn’t mistaken, the list of names given to her by Walter had been owned by Oliver’s mother.

It made sense that his father would have had one too, would have passed it on in some twisted legacy left to burden shoulders that could do and be so much more.

But she was getting ahead of herself. _Pain does that_, it made her skip levels in processing and head for an exit.

It also made things sharper.

The Hood’s go-to emotion was anger. Controlled anger but anger regardless; there _had_ to be a lot to play with inside of him. It wasn’t aimed at her, but it fuelled the way he bent forwards again; curving all the way over her, until his face was an inch - literally one - away from her own and she had to suck down air.

Proximity. Knowing what he did at night didn’t help here; it made it worse, made her worse. Made the way her body started to hum, a weakness. Made her wish she’d pushed for a night with him - a chance to see him as himself, whoever that was - before it was taken away, a night with wine. _Too late now. _The sensible part of her rolled over and laughed until it hurt. There’d never been a chance, not a snowball in hell.

A nobody IT girl and a millionaire, playboy, island returnee? Never happening.

Still… he’d come for her tonight. And now-

“You’re taking the tablets.” Now he was trying to hypnotise her with intense eyes, a throaty voice and the distinct smell of leather, motorcycle fumes and something extra beneath it all as he stated words to her, slowly. “We are going to get the bullet out.” Authoritatively, but not like she was twelve. More like, ‘you’ll do what I say, because you won’t like the consequences if you don’t’. “The pain will be extreme.” Eyes fixed on her own, she wanted to cry _bully_, but that was when she glimpsed it. “If you flinch, we could cut something important.” His fear. “We can talk tomorrow.” Eye flickering over her face, his voice dropped to a whisper. “And the day after.”

“So,” she called his bluff, her eyes squinting, “this isn’t just so you can avoid hearing things about your mother that you’d rather never hear?”

Something in his throat flexed. “You don’t know me well enough to assume that.”

That hurt. It shouldn’t have, because he was right, but he was rigidly keeping to a set of rules she hadn’t known existed and the only sign of disobedience to that norm in him was the finest tremble pulsing from the skin of his face to hers.

And the way her eyes flickered away, the way he followed them leave. The way he didn’t look thrilled with himself for succeeding in his verbal trap.

This was how he protected people. She squared her jaw, swallowing, and met his eyes again as they searched for the reason behind the defiance in hers. Or maybe he just saw that they were wide and pained and a little afraid of everything. “Does that ever work?”

“Does _what_ work?” Every word a sentence unto itself.

“This.” Hand flapping like a flag on a windy day, it flopped right back down. “Your intimidation routine.”

Which felt like a lot less, ‘come into my parlour said the spider to the fly’ than _come hither_ to her but she blamed that entirely on the way the visceral masculinity of the man in front of her, affected her neglected libido.

And his voice. “Usually.” He grated out, before the bite of it softened into something pensive. “Normally.”

She felt her resilience to his ‘me Tarzan, you Jane’ mentality weaken. She really was in a lot of pain and it was making her tired. “Look, I don’t want to be a martyr.” She whispered, expression imploring. “But if you drug me, I won’t be able to tell you the things you need to know _now_, and I might forget details by tomorrow.” And it was unlikely that she’d want to wait a whole day to tell him about his mother, _gulp_. “I know you don’t want to hear it…”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“B-but-”

“But this is about more than just my mother, isn’t it?”

Tempest. Walter. Moira Queen. The shadow of a person who scared her senseless. The Gambit. Everything that happened to him.

“Not _just_ about your mother.”

Sighing, teeth clenching; Oliver pulled back. A hand reached up to his face, followed by the other to carefully press over his eyes_. I’m sorry._

“I got them.” John’s strides were audible in a way that Oliver’s weren’t and when he reached Felicity, his eyes immediately dropped to her shoulder. “You’re going to need to get comfortable.”

“She’s not taking the oxycodone yet.” Oliver interjected without looking at either of them. “You’ll need to numb the area.”

John’s eyes went to and from Oliver and Felicity, midway through sterilising his hands with a weird looking brillopad-thingie that foamed up as he scrubbed under his nails with it. “I’m sorry, what?”

Felicity attempted a smile as she looked at him side-on. “Can’t go to sleep yet. I’ve got things to share.”

Both brows arched in such a way she worried they’d never fall back down. “You agreed to this?” He asked Oliver.

“No.” Hands falling, Oliver sent them both a look of ire. “I didn’t… but I won’t make her take them.”

Deflating, John exhaled. “Scrub up, man.”

Nodding, Oliver tore off his gloves and unceremoniously unzipped his jacket, only to pull it off and reveal an ultra-tight, long-sleeved muscle shirt that would star in many a pleasant daydream for future Felicity. _Damn_. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel the need to go the Full Monty. _Double damn_. “Her shirt.” He murmured.

_Uh, what?_

John peered down at it. “It needs to go.” Suddenly clean fingers tugged lightly on the rip at her back-

She hissed. “Okay, it’s coming off…”

“I can’t numb it without injecting the site.” John muttered, pulling her back to reality. “You comfortable with needles?”

Her eyes closed.

“You still think this is a good idea?” Oliver muttered somewhere ahead of her.

She hummed and gulped.

* * *

It had taken all of two seconds for John to realise that Oliver wouldn’t - couldn’t - do this.

He couldn’t take the bullet out of Felicity Smoak. Never mind take out a bullet, seeing the blood on her shoulder and the small hole there had made Oliver freeze in a way that john had never anticipated seeing in the man.

Pure fear.

_I made him sit his ass down_, and in the most appropriate place.

In front of Felicity Smoak, the bundle of light, quirkiness and an odd ability to be so inoffensively cute and huggable – yes, he'd thought it – that it was difficult not to soften around her. _Lord knows Oliver's giving it his best go though_. For that, John would ignore the way the room seemed to hush when John snipped Felicity’s shirt of her shoulders. The man had tightened, and he’d seen him clench before. _The leather is tight enough to notice_. But this was like blood to a shark and having been with John and behind her at the time, John had heard the way the Hood had held his breath… then he’d seen the wound and the air left his lungs like a punch to gut.

He’d held the needle and injection port in still fingers, hovering over the area for about a minute whilst Dig waited, before he’d whispered. _“I... I can’t.”_

And that was that.

It hadn’t helped that the sweetest cupcake to live in the city started to cry the moment the needle slid into her skin. Silent tears, which might have been worse because John had to see them through Oliver. Standing behind her and looking over her head, Oliver who was sat on a stool before her - his legs spread to accommodate her knees, his back bowed and his elbows taking his weight - had looked into her face and what he’d seen there had rippled into his own.

So, he’d distracted her with a game of twenty questions and that was how John now knew just how deeply Oliver’s mission intertwined with the city. It was how he knew that there was more to all of this, his soldier’s blood singing the truth.

It was how he knew that Oliver’s cracked, and broken heart had taken another hit.

“You went to the mansion?” And he spoke so quietly now, John had to strain to hear every word. “And my mother…”

“Hit her over the head with a lamp?” John cut in, helpfully finishing a sentence Oliver hadn't been able to verbalise the first time, never mind now.

Not that Oliver found it helpful; the look he sent was so cutting that John was surprised it didn’t manifest as a slice upon his skin.

But he hadn’t pulled back, hadn’t pulled away from the scared IT girl in front of him and John took that as a good sign on her behalf. A sign that Oliver believed her. _I have no patience for wilful ignorance_.

And Oliver loved how he loved, despite their lies and faults.

“I was trying to help.” Felicity explained, though she’d already explained about Walter, about the Offshore LLC account she’d discovered that had led to more questions that answers. “I wanted her to know that if she wanted out from whoever had her under their thumb,” and Oliver’s hands hadn’t unclenched from the fists they’d made since she’d explained about how his mother was being terrorised in form or another, “then I could help. Mostly though…” And since he’d started, every tug from the stitches John was now applying to her skin - when he’d shown her the bullet he’d dug out, she’d looked so awed he’d been helpless against handing the bloodied slug over, only for it to be taken by Oliver - had made her flinch. _Sorry honey_. This world wasn’t meant for people like her. “Mostly I just wanted to give her the chance to tell you everything.” She said to Oliver. “I wanted her to make the choice.”

And she’d been rewarded by almost being killed.

Over Felicity’s head, John threw Oliver a look of pure stone, but the man was too taken by the way Felicity was looking at him.

“She’s afraid.” He whispered and he watched Felicity’s head bob. “What she did… it had to be because she’s afraid.”

“I thought so too.” Felicity responded and John could _feel_ her hesitation pouring out of her, her hesitation _and_ her steel. “But the same person she’s so afraid of is the same person who caused the Queen’s Gambit to sink into the China sea.”

Any and all fear fled Oliver’s face in place of the disbelief - the shock - that seemed to reverberate through every cell in his body. “Excuse me?”

“Your mother found the proof.”

“What proof? What-”

“So did Walter. And when he did,” voice breaking at the way Oliver was staring helplessly at her and waiting for her to tell him that this was a bad joke, “when he told your mother, she had him kidnapped to prove to whoever’s holding all the cards, that she was loyal.”

“Jesus Christ.” John muttered, eyes on his stitches once again; tugging the needle through her skin once more.

Not that he missed the way Oliver shot up off his stool, turning to pace between benches with his hands coming up to the back of his neck and head.

“I tracked the GPS in Mr Steel’s phone.” Being on a roll, Felicity didn’t stop there and why should she? She’d been shot because of this. “He was taken outside of the city, somewhere in Bludhaven. But then the signal turned back. His affects are currently with your mother, at her office. In her desk.”

Oliver didn’t turn.

“I saw what he found. I saw the Gambit. It _was_ sabotaged. Mr Steel wanted to get it looked into; he’d started making calls, wanting to open up a new investigation into the death of his friend.” Oliver’s father. “When he went missing, I hacked into his secured system, which… wasn’t very secure, but he left me every scarp of evidence he had. What happened on the Gambit, to your father, to- to Sara Lance…” More than a little dumbfounded that she’d dare breach the subject, John gaped down at her head; seeing in his peripheral, the way Oliver fingers dragged over his scalp, the way he shifted just enough to see half of his face. The sharp angles to his features, the shadows in his face created by the low hanging light. “It was the fault of whoever is powerful enough to persuade or coerce the one percenter’s in this city to work with him.” She cleared her throat. “Or her.”

“Persuade?” Looking destroyed, the slight manic shimmer in Oliver’s blue eyes was offset greatly by the red rawness there. He could crack at any minute, and _I don’t mean in tears_. “The one percenter’s?”

“Tempest. They’re a group of the rich and wealthy in the city; it’s not just a code name for a fake bank.”

“Who are they?”

“I…” this time John heard her swallow. “I don’t know. I just know that there’s a list of names,” _back up_, “and the answer is in that list.”

“A list of names?” Brows tapering, Oliver made his way back over to her; making sure to do it slowly, and it wasn’t threatening. It was as if he was having difficulty finding his feet. “There’s another list?”

“Another?” Felicity didn’t sound baffled; she sounded hopeful. Like the connecting of dots helped her process. “You have a list?” _She’s quick_.

Striding over to his box of tricks - a box Oliver wouldn’t let John open - he yanked it off the ground, undid the lock and had it open and shut in seconds before coming back over and handing the little book of marks over to the enterprising woman who had the quilt pulled up to her collarbone, because her shirt had fallen off her shoulders a while ago.

He handed it to her, like it was nothing. _He wouldn’t even let me touch it in the first few weeks_.

“How did you make the names visible?” She muttered as she flicked through it one handed.

“Over a fire.” Low toned and practically vibrating, Oliver watched her like a hawk. “Who gave you a list.”

Her head lifted to see him. “Walter.” Oliver’s intensity didn’t wane, but his eyes closed when she finished her next sentence. “He took it from your mother. I looked through the list; every single person you’ve targeted since coming home, it was because they were on the list, wasn’t it?”

Eyes still closed, brow line concentrated, Oliver nodded. He looked like he was in pain.

“Why?” She whispered. _Why does he_, John hazarded a guess, _target the people on the list?_

Breathing back out, Oliver opened sore eyes to gently take the list back from her, only to stare down at it. “My father.” He didn’t elaborate. “This list represents a group of people who are actively contributing to the detriment of the city.”

“There’s a chance,” she slowly spoke, “that your parents were part of the same group or had ties with members of that list.”

Oliver didn’t look away from the book.

“It… it would mean that they were criminals.” It sounded like the last thing Felicity wanted to say and her voice was so small, John felt a wave of sympathy for her as he finished the last of her stitches just in time for the numbness to start wearing off. “Whatever happened, I think your father might have done something, or disagreed with whoever is putting the pressure on your mother. I think that’s what got him killed and you stranded on an island. And I think that your mother… a couple of years after it happened, I think this same person may have made a deal with her. Your mother would be untouched, the Queen legacy and inheritance allowed to expand and your sister safe, as long as she turns a blind eye to whatever is going on behind closed doors in this city. That deal now includes you.”

_It has to be said_. “And she’s willing to kill innocent IT girls for it.”

“She was aiming for me.” Oliver breathed.

“And before you arrived, she was aiming at Felicity’s face.” Not that John wanted to reinforce an ugly truth, but the girl in front of them deserved something for a terrorising night. “Is Felicity worth less?”

Less _than_. Less than the Queen name.

It took the beat of a pulse before Oliver moved, throwing the list hard and fast somewhere towards the alleyway exit before storming off towards the bathroom.

The granite-blankness on his face, telling of the amount of emotion bartering at his calm.

* * *

“You can’t leave.”

“I need to go back to the site.” And John might have believed Oliver, if not for the way he was refusing to look at him. “Scout the perimeter, see if the man I took out is still there-”

“Oliver.” Pausing, eyes to the ground and dressed in full green leather regalia, Oliver waited for it; stuck between needing to leave and needing to stay. “Come on.”

Or was it wanting to leave and needing to stay?

Wanting to stay and needing to leave? He couldn’t decide.

Chest heaving once, lips pressing together to prevent perhaps unwise words being said; Oliver cast his glance back down into the Foundry. On the single light shining upon the similarly solitary figure and it needn’t have, not to Oliver.

Felicity Smoak had a light of her own.

“I can’t-” Mouth closing, gaze harder but not colder than it had been since his last _you have failed this city_, Oliver swallowed. “What do you want from me John?”

And he heard his friend sigh; an echo of the partnership they’d forged together. “Alright. You go, but…”

It didn’t occur to Oliver that the reason why John’s voice trailed off was because of him, because of the way the muscles of his face relaxed and pulled in a different direction; one that resonated a sudden ache inside his chest.

She was burrowing into the blanket, back bare and it was the most vulnerable thing he’d seen in years. The most affecting.

The most… _pretty_.

It was a thought he continued to have. There wasn’t much he could do about it. Nor could he do a lot about his simultaneous need to run away from the knowledge that his mother had held a gun to her head tonight, and his urge to be the one to keep her warm. “My mother.”

“Yeah.”

“She pointed a gun at her John.”

“I know.”

“Would she have…” it was too difficult to say. “Do you think she would have…” Would his mother have killed her?

Was she that far gone?

“I don’t know, man.” Even from steps away, Oliver felt John shrug. “Maybe she would have. Maybe she wouldn’t. But that’s one brave woman over there.”

“Yeah.”

He felt John watching him and it was as if he could sense that he couldn’t move. “I’ll go. I’ll do a sweep; see if anything was left behind.”

There was no nod, no response from Oliver. But he still let John pass him by.

“Word of advice.” John muttered as he did. “She needs to know that you don’t hate her for what she’s told you.”

Hate her? That wasn’t even in question. It was just… it was too much. All at once. Part of him didn’t believe it. The rest of him knew how the world could work and absolutely knew that what Felicity told him was spot on.

All he could think about, all he could see, was how she’d pushed him out of the way of a bullet meant for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely nervous about the next chapter; I want to post to over Christmas because it should -SHOULD - make you all grin if I can make it work *PLEASE SAY I CAN MAKE IT WORK*


	12. Safe As Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the danger long gone, Felicity takes a few moments to reflect as those strong painkillers kick in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kay, so it's been way longer than expected but I never seem to get the memo whenever my life is about to swerve right instead of left. In light of Arrow ending, I wanted this posted this weekend and... well this is where things drastically change.  
I'M NERVOUS.  
Please review!!

At least she wasn’t cold anymore.

“Noooope,” she shook her head, pleasantly relaxed and enjoying the tension release from each and every muscle; like stepping into a warm bath, “_nupe_; not cold.” _At all_. Toasty. Even her toes, which was _odd- isn’t it odd?_ They’d been near-frozen before and she couldn’t _quite_ recall why-

_Shoes!_ Shoeless Felicity.

Nose crinkling down at her feet where they dangled in front of her stool, she made a quiet noise. _Am I in shock now? Or I didn’t lose too much blood_. Everything that had been heightened before felt dull now, including the chill covering every inch of her, the frost bite she’d been sure off. Still, she wasn’t exactly lying on a beach somewhere, collecting rays.

On a beach with Oliver.

_Now there’s a thought,_ worthy of much consideration. The weight of her _grin_ before it appeared, _before_ she could stop it, was startling. The asinine sigh of a very agreeable thought that was neither here nor there; in the case of herself and Oliver Queen, it was unthinkable. The big IT. Especially now- _before now_. She was incapable of deluding herself. _He’d_ certainly never thought it, couldn’t have. So, picturing him on a beach with her was a thought _not _worth entertaining.

_It’s a very nice thought though, yep_. He’d be shirtless, for sure. Guys like him - photogenic in every cell of his body - wouldn’t miss an opportunity to be gloriously shirtless under the sun, with the sea and on the sand. It was just so sad that she had to fill the blanks; that she’d _forever_ have to fill those blanks in and fill them in hard. _Story of my life._

She curled her toes, watching them slowly unfurl as the strangest sweep of delight fluttered through her at the sight. _Toes_. Why did humans have toes? Stabilising elements of the body they might be, toes weren’t attractive; not hers and not in her opinion. _I bet Oliver’s are perfect though_. She could see them, his toes _scrunching_ into the grains of sand, eyes closed against light, feeling the wind waft against his naked legs. The ocean as it uncoils and recoils over their feet-

Because she’d be _right_ there, taking him in - even as he doesn’t notice her there, because he’d be with some beautiful brunette - only to look down at her own feet again and see that they’re-

“Dirty.” Really dirty. _When did that happen?_ “Have they been that dirty the whole time?” Which means the two most physically daunting, most attractive, most _intimidating_, secret keeping men she’d ever had the fortune to meet, had received a bird’s eye view of the dirt. Oliver had been sat in front of her. _Seeing_ the dirt. Smelling the damp. _Oh, phooie_. Luckless.

Mortification was running a little behind though. _A lag? Am I lagging? _A processing glitch?

_Do I care?_

She didn’t. She should, but she didn’t; even though dry mud wasn’t the only thing coming off in flakes down the sides of her feet.

_Is that… blood? _Her blood or someone else’s? Oliver wasn’t hurt. His mother wasn’t hurt. _Did Oliver shoot a guy? Did I step in the bloody aftermath? In their sea of blood-soaked tears? _Oliver probably made bad guys cry buckets for breakfast, lunch and dinner on a daily basis, and the idea made her simultaneously squeamish and filled with misplaced hilarity.

_Feel… floaty._

Gratitude was a big feeling too. How could it not be?

_“You came for me.”_

_“You knew I would.”_

She hadn’t though. She’d hoped but… the reality of it was a sting she’d long since grown accustomed to; people didn’t notice her. They didn’t miss her or want her to stay. They didn’t notice her absence. Even if they did, it wouldn’t have amounted to anything more than a few questions asked. She hadn’t made a dent in Starling City and that was on her own head. But after her father, after Cooper? It had so much easier to lay low, to dodge behind barriers, to _not_ need people and she’d a little too adept at being self-sufficient.

No friends, no family, no boyfriend. Triple threat. Add to that, that she’d deliberately kept her head down at Queen Consolidated - refusing to strive for a position there where the responsibility of resources, materials, finances and funding would be at her wayward fingertips - and she was a ghost.

A very _curious_ ghost.

And maybe that was all this was; her curiosity had led her to closed doors, dark corridors and dangerous people who-

But Oliver had walked into her office first. He’d reached out first.

He’d seen her. He’d needed help. He’d chosen hers to ask for.

Why? She wanted to know; _why me?_ Why not Eddie down the corridor or Vanessa, her supervisor? Why Felicity Smoak and not some other unknown?

_Why wear that Hood at all Oliver Queen?_

Heroic. Homeric. He was certainly something… a something not with her just then.

But back to the blood on her feet - on her hands, on her clothes - the blood everywhere. She’d never had her blood everything before. _Does that make me a badass now? _She’d been shot; she was officially a badass, right? Because if she wasn’t, she was just a victim with little power and she couldn’t think about that right now; couldn’t think about being shot, being saved.

_Focus on the filth_. Grubby. Sweaty. _Dirty, dirty girl. _

Legs, feet, coiling around the underbelly of her chair, she twisted to the side – body slanting – and her weight forced the stool to _rolllllllll_ around, carrying her past the medical bed.

“_Whee_…” The Foundry circled about her focus and with each rotation a steady humdrum of grey, grey, greyer, _steel_, dark-something, and grey, revolved across her eyes. The place had a distinct lack of personality, which tended to happen in the basement of abandoned steel mills. The low lighting, the damp floor, the steam rising from the pipes in the back, the dank moistness in the atmosphere…

The computer, the medical table. The equipment. The arrows. The added scent of leather and metal.

She’d never felt safer.

“Safe. As. Houses.” Then her face scrunched, legs curling up to her chest. “What does that even mean? Safe as houses- Is a house safe?” Not by her definition, _not in this city_. Not anymore, anyway. She’d never held any reservations as to the contrary, but having it shoved in her face tonight had made it real in a way she’d never imagined it would ever have been. _Naïve?_ Maybe. But here - in the open and exposed environment of the Foundry - in a place where no one could hear her scream should she need to, it was safe. “I’m a dummy.”

It shouldn’t be safe, shouldn’t _feel_ safe. The basement of an abandoned Foundry should be the _last_ safe place in Felicity’s book of safe places. That she had a book of safe places was mildly terrifying in its connotations, but-_ maybe I’m just _bent_ that way;_ secure in damp dungeons and dens with her mind working on overtime despite the events of the evening… _Bent_.

“Pachinko,” lips popping, fingers flicking out, brow arching as she tried to wink and managed only to blink both eyes, “power.”

Bad guys watch out.

She snorted.

And yet.

Though the locks on the door were pitiful, she’d sort them out later for him. For both of them. And she was pretty sure she’d glimpsed a very sorry looking, triple-set of monitors earlier that she’d normally be itching to get her paws on, but- _warm_. Secure. Alive. There was no urgency at all.

Inhaling into the folds of the quilt that she’d pulled up to her chin, she hummed. “They smell like you.” Like Oliver, who was-

Still not there.

_Oh yeah_. “Why am _I_ still here again?” Sitting on a stool that had stopped revolving.

There was something he’d asked her to do, something about… sitting still and waiting as he looked for towels? She could do that; she was a pro at sitting down for hours and she’d technically sat very still for a whole lot of hours with-

_“Now this can either be really quick,” he said with a frown as he untangled wires, ignoring her open mouth, her wide eyes, her tears, “or really not quick. Your choice.”_

Okay, maybe she couldn’t sit still.

Or… _think_. About anything. Ever.

_Distraction is key_. Luckily, the Foundry was soothingly so.

The sound of the steam pipes hissing, the contradictory silence of everything else, the fact that there were probably only three souls who knew this place existed or that a certain vigilante had moved in; the area, clandestine and vented. The Foundry, a den.

_I love a good secret_. There should be more mysteries on the planet; some of them needed to be solved and she’d solved this one, _boy, did I solve this one_.

To her, secrets were candy; but only _one_ type. The kind that made her smile; _those_ were the ones that got first billing. She didn’t need to share them, didn’t need to boast solving them or horde them for blackmail material, _though I could totally do that_. They just needed to be the kind of secret where solving them helped a person, where being included made her feel, if transiently, part of a whole instead of just a part.

But _this_? It felt too big. Too much to process all at once. Even as they’d taken the _bullet_ out of her, she hadn’t managed to crack a dent in how massive it was...

Bullet. They’d taken a _bullet_ out of her.

“Wow,” staring into space, “I had a bullet in me.” She’d been _shot_. By a **gun**. There had been- “A _bullet_.” Arms lifting, hands pointing over the back of her shoulder, jerking in tandem with each word. “_IN. _ME_._” _What a rush_. “Kind of disappointed that it’s on my _shoulder_ and not somewhere where I can,” she tried in vain to peer behind her, only catching the neat - and simultaneously crooked - stitching, “see it.” Would she scar? Would she like it? “Never had a scar. I wonder if Oliver has many scars…” She puffed out a breath, her lips pouting; fringe lifting in the waft of it.

_When are those pills going to kick in?_

He’d given them to her, Oliver, before disappearing to… _to the bathroom? I swear I heard the word bathroom_-

A bath. _Oh yes_. Something about warm water. _Oh yes, please. A bath would feel _so _incredibly good right now_. She was a dirty girl after all; caked and baked. _I am done_. A fillet and nowhere close to being presentable enough to serve. But _since_ she was all dirty, she really _should_ take a shower. _Can’t think of what a bath might look like down here though._ Maybe she should go home. But-

_Safe_.

Two plus two equals four. Here = good. Home = alone. Oliver wouldn’t mind. _Would he?_ He’d told her stay, had asked her very quietly to not move off the stool.

He was _nice_. And it wasn’t always because he wanted something. _No_, he might be sly - _and pretty fly for a white guy_ \- but not _that_ sly. She’d caught him sometimes; he smiled at her, and it wasn’t always for some purpose other than smiling.

He watched her mouth as she spoke.

He watched her mouth when she _didn’t_ speak.

For no reason. _Tingly_.

_Er… I’ve been caught doing the same_. He was a gentleman though; he’d kept shut.

But there was that other thing, where his eyes would circle back to hers or simply lift from the floor to her own and- _devastating_. From her toes to her lips, she felt it. _Yummy_. And scary, because- _eyes shouldn’t have that kind of power_. To make her throat close and stomach want to dry heave, to make her question and re-question every word spoke. To make her so conscious of her body whenever he was in the room.

He was a _very_ attractive man for so many reasons but sometimes, _sometimes_ it was because of the way those eyes of his caught the light and told truths. Even as his equally delicious mouth told lies. Or the way they’d pierce through the dark, the way the blue would oscillate with shimmers of silver under the sun or the way the solitary light in a room filled with the night could transform them into pools of velvet.

The way they’d sometimes already be on her by the time she found him in a room, the inquisitive angle to them as if she made him curious and maybe she did. Maybe the way her hands spoke for her, maybe her fashion sense or her terribly poor choice of words made him wonder about the IT Girl. Made him look twice instead of once and done.

_He could go into professional acting_. If the way he made it appear as if he took in her every word was anything to go by; a façade built just for her. And he did it with the kind of confusion, amusement and patience - or exasperation and disbelief - that didn’t feel at all like the condescension she’d been sent from the stares and glares of others in the past.

His eyes felt warm when they should be cold.

_There’s that word again_.

But… that’s what he was to her. Gentle. That, and she didn’t think she’d ever met a pair of eyes as _lonely_ as his. _My God._ Eyes that carried so much in them and behind them, eyes that stayed with her after he left a room-

_He’s always doing that_. Leaving. Leaving fast. Her office, her apartment- _but he came for me tonight_. When she didn’t think anyone would or could. And in order to leave her space, he first had to enter it with eyes that followed her in dreams; eyes that hoped for gentleness, even as they preached a candid violence.

She watched him, so she knew. _Hmm. Honestly, when we’re in the same room, I probably watch him far more than social mores dictates is allowed_. She couldn’t find it in herself to care about that. Or _any_ kind of preoccupation just then. But it was how she knew that he was a good man. A kind man, though he sometimes did everything he could to make people think he wasn’t. _How does that work? _It was so obvious, how much he wanted to be loved. How much he wanted people to be happy. He didn’t thrive off debauchery the CNN liked to capitalise upon; he just pretended to. _You know, when he isn’t throwing Christmas parties for his emotionally crashed family._ It was so silly. And sad. _More silly than sad though_.

His mother hadn’t been silly _or_ sad.

_Wait-_

Eyes closing, choiceless; it came in flashes. The gun. An unreceptive gaze that looked past her instead of _at_ her. A damp floor beneath her shoeless feet. Electricity and pain. Words that dug into her rib cage; fingers of invisible, indelible bruises that couldn’t be seen in the light.

And then all of it cut out; like the flick of a switch.

_Blank spot. _As if something inside of her knew she couldn’t afford even a thimbleful of energy to deliberate in any capacity about Moira Queen, because- _there be monsters_. So, there was a pleasant void somewhere between her kidney and her lung, where she’d pushed it all down. She had nothing to give to it right now. Nothing to spare. There was a time and there was a place, and this was neither the time nor the place. There was always a later and- _that’ll be fun. _The kind of fun that hurt.

But at this moment, Felicity felt… nothing. _Sort of_.

Still, how could his mother feel like everything Oliver wasn’t? _How could they be so different when they’re family… Oh, well, there’s me and my mother._ And if she remembered correctly, Cooper had come from the kind of family who cared little for his interests in computer science. Or in _him_.

“Does that count?” It should have been strange to feel so sluggish, yet so full of sunlight. It made her want to stretch, stretch, _stretch_. “_Yes_.” She breathed as she did just that, aiming for the black above her; but her thoughts wouldn’t lie still. “It’s complicated, I _guess_.” She could mull it over till the sky turned green. “Oliver knows he’s a…” _stretch some more_, “secret plushie bear that wants to be loved. Or I think he does.” Arms overhead, reaching for the rafters, she felt little, if _any_**,** pull at her shoulder. _Way to go John Diggle_. “But he also… goes out at night, beating the crap out of criminals.” Sometimes killing them. _I watch the news_. She just didn’t know the story; the whirling dervish of why’s and how’s. Rolling her booty in the chair, she soothed out the kinks in her back. “That he hides it all behind a mask of super pretty smiles is neither here nor there.” The charm was real though. “Boy, is it.” She slumped; it was hard to concentrate sometimes, when he pushed it up to its highest setting. On purpose, _because he’s a cheater_.

Emboldened in green leather. The Archer.

It made him special. Extraordinary. A special boy who didn’t deserve to come home after all she could guess he’d endured, with some elusive mission that involved the cover of night and reckless endangerment, only to discover that everything he thought he knew about his family was nothing more than a smokescreen; one that was already crumbling into pieces.

And Walter was the catalyst. _Me, the enabler_. It would be thrilling it wasn’t also incredibly disturbing. She’d unearthed a secret people would kill for. There was some sort of sin in that, she was sure there was.

_Maybe I should wear a hood too_. Or a mask. _Red; the colour of sin. Or Purple, the Enabler._

…Pink?

Imagining herself frolicking through the night wearing pink leather made her snort, but she’d give it serious thought afterwards. Right now, all she could feel was relaxed.

_Giddy_. Happy.

She hadn’t stopped smiling. Hadn’t stopped moving, even as a lackadaisical haze soaked pleasantly beneath her skin, making her rise from her seat to complete a thorough hand to floor stretch-

“_Oh_,” woozy, “okay, no- no bendy.” _Dizzy_.

Straightening - breathing and balancing on both feet, _two feet are better than one_ \- her hands searched automatically down her sides for that uncomfortable pull she’d been feeling with every movement and-

“Okay_, ew_.” Eyes tracking the blood caked down her shirt, her _white_ shirt, she released it had seeped into the black of her skirt, which was now stuck to her butt. Dirty water, dirty floor; just dirt in general with an extra special layer of sweat added to everything she was wearing, and she was a sight for any kind of eye. The crinkle of matted fabric every time she shifted made her cringe, itching the inside of her ears. “Oh, that is coming _off_.” Now. Her hands reached her waistline. “Off, off, off, off, off.”

Shimmying - hips gyrating - thumbs jostling her skirt down her thighs; the cool air hitting her backside felt unusually wonderful and when it fell to her bare feet, she kicked off the offending item of clothing, flinging it into the shadows of Oliver’s lair. “Dasvidanya.”

Her fingers were already making short work of her shirt.

“Didn’t Oliver say something,” she muttered, concentrating on the tiny buttons making their way down her front, _they are _hard_ to see_, “about hot water and towels?” _Goody_. It sounded delectable; it truly was the small things in life that made life great like a shower, and soap- “And _Oliver_.” Dreamy. “Oliver and bubbles.” An earnest stream of giggling had her almost tottering sideways. “Whoa.” Finger pressed over both lips, “_shush_,” she blinked away the blurred image of Oliver paddling in a bathtub with a rubber duck. “Why though? I mean of all the images… still not the weirdest thing I’ve thought. Let’s just get this off.” Easier said than done with the way it was sticking to her-

One not so gentle tug on her left sleeve and it _unravelled_.

“Huh.” Stripped. “Mission accomplished.” Shirt dangling from her fingertips, she marvelled at just how much blood had soaked into the material and at the strength of the scent coming off it. “That is ripe. They said it would smell like copper.” The TV shows, teachers, books – people in general. And they were right. “Something tells me it’s _not_ going to wash out.”

Like it mattered when it was in pieces. _It was one of my favourites_. But maybe that was the reason why Oliver was taking so long; she was _covered_. It wasn’t nice to look at; the reminder that a bullet meant for him, had hit her.

“Bye, bye.” She dropped the offending item to the floor.

_Problem solved._

Sighing, she waved her uncovered arms through the chilly air and it felt like a cool breeze on a summer’s day. “Better.” Judging the smattering of mud and blood caked on her arms made her pout; she needed to wash _now_. “Then maybe he wouldn’t look so sad.” Like a kicked puppy. A sexy, green leather clad kicked puppy who wore ultra-tight, near-transparent muscle shirts beneath said green leather. “It’s a dichotomy.” A thrilling one, but she didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable for longer than required. “Maybe I’m invading his space.” She wondered, eyes searching to where she’d glimpsed Oliver head off too before she’d taken her pills, towards the untouched regions of the Foundry where she knew the bathroom area had to be considering the dim light coming through the gap in the door. “I’ll go see if he’s okay.”

Feet lightly padding towards that light, she didn’t notice the ruined bra resting beside the shirt she’d let fall. The bra John Diggle had cut through a strap of. The bra covering her small breasts, breasts that now freely _bounced_ as she near-skipped onwards without a care in the world…

The removed bra that left her _only_ in her dark blue panties.

_Thar’s a nice breeze. _“Oliver?” She called out, blinking at the way the world around her blinked _back_. “Whoa. Those were some pills.” Every time her head moved, the ground beneath her feet seemed to move _with_ her. “Oh god, earthquake?”

Hands braced out on _nothing_, she held her stance just feet from the would-be-bathroom. Waiting for another tremor. _Are earthquakes even prevalent Starling? _It didn’t matter; the proof was in the pudding; the pudding was the ground beneath her feet rippling like _waves_.

“This is bad.” She said to herself, without really feeling anything about it beyond wide eyed curiosity. “Oliver needs to know about the earth-”

The door opened in front of her.

“Felicity.” Glancing upwards through the fallen pieces of her hair, she caught Oliver staring down at the towel in his grasp with his other hand pushing the door back. “We don’t have a bath in use,” he called out, his upper body bending round and back into the room to switch off a tap that was causing a waft of warm steam to percolate the immediate area and she almost felt her toes curl. _Steam_. That would feel so good against her body right now. “It’s not, um…” he muttered as he turned off a tap, before straightening, “clean.” Clearing his throat, she watched his hands ring the towel in his grasp until several drops of water squeezed out of it and onto the floor. “We need to wipe the blood off,” he continued; quiet and almost unsure as he stepped beyond the door - still in those boots of his - before glancing up with the rest of his words, “so I’m just going to use this to-”

Eyes hitting her, he froze. The towel fell to the floor. Like a muted zing from navel to nose, she felt his gaze on her _pop_; a croaking, strangled thing cracking out of his throat-

“Don’t move.” She warned him, hands shooting out at him just in case and she felt her eyes grow unfocused on feeling another wave. “You feel that? There- _ssh_!” As if he were screaming at her instead of reigning absolute silence. “I think we’re having an earthquake.” Feet _pressing_ into the floor, she tested her environment. _Huh, solid_. “I felt a tremor just now. Oliver?” Coming back into the here and now, her eyes flickered over him. “Oliver, did you feel the tremor?”

Oliver wasn’t looking at her.

His gaze was _riveted_ to the rafters above. Throat working, he cleared it. “Felicity-”

It was like he was having trouble with something.

But she was too busy focusing on the way his fingers twitched against the leather at his thighs as they maintained what looked like two rigid claws. _Wait, is he feeling this too?_ “You feel it too?” She said in a rush.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.” Voice gruff and gravelly, every word seemed to cost him. “Um. Where are your clothes-”

She let out a series of loud _ssh’s_. “There is it again!”

_“Felicity.”_ It was flat and he was still staring up. “What’s going on?”

Was there something up there? “The earthquake.”

“Earthquake?” Confusion - and it looked just as good on him out of the leather jacket - brought a tiny little furrow between his brows, softening the pretty blue they sheltered as they sought her out- before _immediately_ flying back up to heaven. “Shit.” Eyes closing then, even with his face tilted up to the sky, his hand came up and scrubbed over it as he _breathed_. Deeply. Like he’d been robbed of air.

What was wrong with him?

But she had more pressing concerns. “I think I can make it stop.” Face scrunching up, eyes squinting, nose crinkling, lips pressing together; she concentrated every cell in her body on making the floor beneath her feet, stop pulsating. _I’ve got this bowman_. She had it in the _bag_, she’d save them; it was her responsibility…

_There_. She breathed a sigh of relief when her world righted and the dizzy spell stopped. “Did it.”

“Fantastic.” A voice that dry - and weirdly urgent - needed water. “Is it over now?”

“I… I think so.”

“So, you’re done? You’re finished?”

Concern took her a step closer. “Are you okay?” And why her question would make an ill-humoured laugh bust his gut - it sounded painful instead of, you know, happy - she didn’t know. “You mean, you didn’t feel that just now? It was crazy.” Crazy close to needing to hug the walls.

“I can promise you that whatever you’re feeling, it is _not_ what I’m feeling.” True, he didn’t sound airy-fairy and bright; he sounded a little _pissy_.

Strained.

It was kind of funny. The Hood. Pissy. “I thought you were in pain or upset about something.”

The silence from him - the way he didn’t blink, the way his face hardened, the way his eyes were pointed in their soundless panic - made her figure it was a personal something and not for her to be pushing into.

“I was looking for you.” she continued, smiling as he hands reached up - chest lifting - to pull the rest of her hair from the bobble. “You were taking too long.”

This amazing sound left him; incredulity, pain and self-reprimand but he didn’t say a word.

So, “um,” she shifted from one foot to the next. “It’s kind of cold in here, you know.”

“_Yeah_.” His lips pressed together. “Yes, it is.” His voice sounded small.

“The blood was sticking to me,” she continued as if she’d been explaining this _entire_ time from start to finish and maybe she had; things were slipping from her memory, her throat was dry, she was starting to feel the cold again, she felt strangely slow - like she’d been standing still for too long - and she was getting hungry, “and I didn’t think you’d mind if I took a shower.”

Another sound left him; it was either an _oh_, a _huh_ or a _hah_. It could have been a _uh huh_ too.

“Do you have a shower?” she pressed, her hands brushing over her chest at the dirty spots.

“…I have a shower.”

He was _still_ looking up.

Shrugging, she caught sight of the towel he’d dropped, _who knew Oliver could be clumsy?_ The towel with steam rising off it. “Oh, _warm_.” Bending to reach it, it was already in her hands by the time Oliver had twisted around; his own hands moving towards her.

“Wait, it’s dirty n-”

With a hiss of air - his fingers accidentally brushing her side when he moved - his arm flew up and away from her as he whipped back so fast, she was stunned he didn’t break something.

She blinked at his back. “Oliver, are you okay?”

There was a whispered ‘_fuck’_ that sounded inappropriately perfect to her foggy mind and biased ears, before his haggard inhale. “No.” Despite the rasp, it was a very hard _no_. The muscles in his shoulders shifted with each mighty breath, reminding her of how very large he was. “No Felicity, I’m not.”

On _not_, his voice wobbled.

_Should my internal alarm bells be ringing? _“I’m sorry.” She whispered, wincing and she really sounded it too. “I didn’t mean to-” whatever it was she’d done had to be kept in the dark because his head _dropped_, hands coming up to splay at the back of his neck. The space between his shoulder blades bounced. _Uh oh_. Clearly, she’d done something _wicked_. “Is it because of tonight?” _With your mother and oh, everything. _“You know, I-”

“I really don’t want to talk about that.”

He did not sound like a happy camper.

_He’s angry with me_. And _there_ was the lump in her throat. She didn’t want him upset with her. _Maybe if I left him alone_…

…Maybe if she went and had a shower?

“Okay.” It was said quietly, utterly distracted from how Felicity had already stepped - light footed - into the heat of the bathroom. “Okay, Felicity, you- you need to put on some clothes.” _Already planned on it_, she thought as she snooped for soap. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” she could _just_ hear each strained word. “It’ll make the pills affects stronger.” He cleared his throat. “Evidently.”

“Yeah,” she wasn’t really paying attention, “maybe.” _Probably_, whatever. She was already pitter pattering towards the showerhead hanging from the ceiling. _That’s got to be dangerous_. She eyed the way it looked like it had been deliberately pulled on, likely by Oliver_. Judging the lack of personality down here, he wasn’t considering aesthetics._ _But I bet his water pressure is to die for_. “Hey,” she called back over her shoulder, repeating her thoughts, “I bet your water pressure is to die for!” Filter-less.

“What- _hey_!”

She heard him stumble and near smack against the door before it blew wide open, revealing him in all his glory.

His eyes took a path _down_ \- seeing the way she as half stretching for the valve, arm overhead, body slightly curved, lots of boob on display - before they slammed closed and she watched a _ripple_ power upwards through his muscles, lifting his chest. His palms were facing out as if he was trying to sooth or in surrender. “Felicity-”

But it was such a nice sight that she just beamed at him. “You should join me!”

Even with the blood loss - and, she absently noted, with the mild haze of her painkillers - she was still able to discern that Oliver had stilled. “What?” Even with his eyes closed, she could tell he was more than a little stunned.

But then she was turned the handle and- “Got it!” Jolting, she hopped back as the water blasted out. “Whoa!” Laughing, because _water pressure heaven_, she twisted back, feeling heated goodness soak her arm and backside. “This feels _great_.”

Jaw tense, “what about your stitches?” He said, loudly. Unhappily.

It would explain why she felt moved to make him less so and it wasn’t as if they both weren’t dirty.

She looked at him.

Shoulders taut, thighs apart, body pulled tightly enough to snap like string, he looked so… _bothered_. She wanted him not to be. She wanted him to be smiling like she was. She wanted him to feel safe, because he’d made her feel so. She wanted him to feel warm, because she was about to be too and-

_Oh_.

Good idea. A-star.

“Oliver.” Before the idea could float away, she was reaching for him; her hands brazenly latching around his wrists-

His eyes flew open.

“Oliver, join me!” There weren’t words to describe the way his eyes looked at her just then, she just knew that she was enjoying it as she tugged backwards with a step. “Join me.”

And he did indeed stumbled forwards with her in shock before-

“I-I don’t think- _wait-”_

But one trip forwards and they were already getting wet. “Come on.” And _oh_, this was going to feel good. Both of them under the water. Hot water. Skin and soap and _scent_\- “Come _on_.” Smiled threatening to break out of her face, her grasp left his wrists; fingers diving down to the bottom of his shirt, immediately lifting it up, up and away…

She faltered, zoning out out as her eyes slipped and slid over and under every hill and volley of the many packs of perfection littering his abdomen. _Oooh_. “Come to mama.”

And even with the material trapped under his arms - because he hadn’t lifted them - his speechless and unnerved eyes, through the whole of it, had been braced against her own turbulently cheerful ones.

She couldn’t look away either; unless it was to his body, which was _captivating_ . She’d never been any kind of naked with a man as cut as him. A man who was as much of a gentleman, at least.

As if too afraid to even touch her, his hands had locked in place, _apart_ from his body.

Blinking once at him, she experienced a split second of extreme clarity. “Oliver, your shirt’s getting wet.” He needed to know this; he was still standing there under the spray and she didn’t want it getting ruined. “You’re not supposed to wear clothes in the shower.” Hair wetting, she should be pausing to relish it, but she couldn’t feel it the way she normally would. It was all blurred out and transient in the face of an Oliver Queen in a wet shirt.

The muscles in his face were working but he couldn’t seem to talk.

Fingers absently dipping into the waistline of his leather pants, she felt his stomach muscles sharply concave as she pulled him forwards a step before her hands returned to the half-removed muscle shirt.

His mouth _fell_ open.

She pushed at him, impatient. “Off.” _Get with the program_.

It was as if the imperativeness of her tone made him move. His arms lifted as she all but shoved the material up his ridiculous pectorals, catching on his chin before it was well and truly _off_.

“Yes.” She breathed, watching him watch her back with the strangest most poignant look of vulnerability on his face. Her hands sat on his hips and so fuzzed up, she could barely feel the vitality under them. _Phooie_. “Get under here.”

Though he was _already_ under there with her. “Felicity.” It was a plea and a warning rolled into one.

Head tilting, she looked him dead in the eye. “What is it?” She whispered, suddenly worried; drawing closer and peering up into his face. “Are you okay?”

Breasts pressing into his skin.

Bottom lip shaking for a moment, a rasping exhale rushed out of him and in a brief but fascinating loss of control, she watched his eyes glance down to wear their bodies met and, even panicked, they were astoundingly mellow and soft. A darker blue.

_Lusty_. Luscious. Ludicrously sexy.

Then they lifted, carrying an ocean of care, concern and _guilt_ as they met hers. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. His eyes were doing the talking and she was beginning to realise that he’d opened to her like the pages of a book; every word was suddenly translatable.

“Oh,” peering from his left to his right, she slowly spoke, “are you worried about me?”

Defenceless. That’s how he looked. Completely and utterly at her mercy, whatever that was supposed to mean, and she was sure that, at another time, she’d understand.

“I’m very safe.” She told him, still smiling as her hands landed atop his pectorals. “Right here."

It was like a damn opened, but his voice was low. Small, quiet. _Emotive_. Astounded. “How can you say that after what you’ve been through tonight?”

Her answer was immediate. “Because it's over now. I’m here.” It was obviously, surely. “With you. You saved me.” She explained, leaning her weight on her hands until the entirely of her front was pressed against his. “You with bow and your arrows and your hood, saved a nobody like me.”

He watched the progression of her thoughts match her expression. “You’re not a nobody.”

But she wasn’t paying attention to where his gaze strayed. “It’s so silly that you’d think I’d be afraid of you.” Watching her own hands fall downwards - no grace left to trace and admire - and appreciating the _gifts_ of Oliver Queen, his chest bevelled with the dip. “Like you’re some sort of monster.” With a mind of their own, her hands swiftly slid around his waist and up his spine and-

_Like a glove_. It wasn’t perhaps the most precise thought for the moment, but she was absently surprised by her lack of surprise at how natural this felt.

It wasn’t until her nose brushed his chest that she’d realised she’d completely - and it felt irrevocable - moulded herself to him. “You smell really good.” The words were barely audible, almost a slur, but if he couldn’t hear her then he’d be able to _feel_ her hum. Loudly. As in, to call it a hum would be understating it by a LOT. A purr followed, travelling up her gullet as she lifted her head to see him again. “You _feel_ really good.” And marvelling.

Pupils dilated, eyes closed, he shook his head fast. Hard. Once and done. “Right.” Then she felt his arms finally move, his knees bending just a bit, until the palms of his wet hands were cupping her equally wet face and she smiled dopily at him as he held her there. _Sleepy_.

She could totally fall asleep, right there in his hold.

But the pads of his hand moved her head back a little and into the spray as he blinked away water. “Felicity,” every syllable pronounced, his eyes peered into her blurring vision, “how many of those pills did you take?”

_Fuzzy_. “Pills?”

“Stay with me.” Face nearing, voice husky; his warm breath hit her mouth. He was really close. “The pills, Felicity.” And really worried. “I gave you a strip.”

“Oh…” concentrating was difficult. “Oh, I… I took it. Them.”

“You took what?” His thumbs moved, keeping her tethered there. “The strip? The _whole_ strip?”

She sighed into his hold, which tightened. “Was I not supposed to?” Mind elsewhere - on his jaw, his chin, the gruff there, and his parted lips - it was pretty much instinctive at this point to just step onto her tip toes and press her mouth to his.

Which is exactly what she did.

There was no real time for the hands on her face to stop her until she placed the lightest of light kisses onto him. _Soft_. Very. _New question_, she thought as she pulled back from the peck of gratitude and helplessness, _how does that work?_ For a man as dangerous as him to have such soft, supple lips.

A man who was staring at her all over again, frozen in place.

Pulling back - feeling his arms against her chest as she moved - but still braced on her toes, she nodded and murmured. “There.”

Prim. Proper. Polite.

But the expression on his face was unchanged. The one that told her _nothing_.

Crestfallen, the bridge of her nose lightly furrowed as she whispered. “I didn’t do it right?”

He swallowed… slowly. “What was that for?” 

“You looked like you needed to be kissed.” She stated frankly. “Looks like I didn’t do it right.” Since he was questioning it and all.

She was already leaning in again and by _‘right’_, her eyes were closing, and her lips were tracing over his. Before they fastened down. Before they _pressed_. And savoured.

He’d watched her lean in, eyes unbearably soft and confused as he did.

The fingers on her face twitched, hands unmoving.

He held his breath.

But he didn’t respond.

Sighing into the small kiss, her nose brushed in and she couldn’t help but… _nip_. His bottom lip. With her upper lip and her teeth. Just a tiny little taste. Barely anything.

Except it worked. For her. _It really works for me_. And it took no effort at all, with all the contentment of slipping into a warm bath, for her mouth to trap his upper lip between hers and _smooch_.

Again.

And again.

And… nuzzle a bit, feeling his exhale stutter down through his nose.

It was in a daze - a wave that had crept up on her and was now barring down with its full weight on her skull - that her eyes managed to open while she was there, seeing both of his wide and watching her mouth - in a world of his own - as she licked her lips. “Oliver,” hands on his forearms, weight settling, her eyes fluttered closed once more; feeling the world swim about her as she lost all feeling in her legs, “I don’t feel so good.”

She was out by Oliver’s second, fearful, _hey_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BWAHAHAHHHAHAHAAHAHAHHAH!! *runs for my life* IT'S FINALLY OUT!  
Um, tell me how you feel?  
Also remember guys; perception is key. You don't yet know what Oliver is thinking.


	13. With a Whimper, Not a Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver is... having difficulty. So much difficulty.  
And Felicity just wants not to be hated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... we're at 1.12. Vertigo.  
This is just to remind people that each chapter of this story are like missing scenes from each episode that slowly but surely change the fate of S1. I hope you enjoy this one. I also know how short they are in comparison to some (hah, ALL) of my other ones.  
Also, again - give Oliver a bit of breathing room. THE BOY IS PRESSED

“…And done.” In her peripheral, John pulled up after being bent over for the last ten minutes. “Easy as pie.” Moving her head to the left, she caught him still peering down at her shoulder where he’d been prodding as he yanked off his surgical gloves. “How good are we?”

This was something he’d encouraged over the last few days. No scales of 1 to 10 for her because according to Oliver Queen’s rule book, an 8 on the pain scale was manageable. In this case, _bad_ was red, so-so was orange and _good_ was-

“Green.” Which she’d repeated for maybe the _fourth_ time in twenty minutes? _He’s a papa bear, for sure._ “Barely felt a thing.” Shuffling her arm into her sleeve, she managed to send him a bright if closed-lipped smile over the much looked-at shoulder. “Steady hands.” _Pity it wasn’t as painless as scrummy, numerical pie_, not that she’d ever let him know that-

“But not painless?” Shrewd, her Jedi healer shifted his butt off the metal seat; his hands automatically moving to help her. “Sorry. Only so many painkillers in one day,” he reminded her, patting down on the bandage before securing her loose, off-the-shoulder shirt over it, “especially after-” his whole being paused before he cleared his throat. “Er…” Body imposing above hers, he chose a word. “_That_.”

‘That’. Her insides threatened to shrivel all over again; would it be how the _event_ was referred to from now on? That. _‘That’ being the night I lost any and all of the respect I _might_ have gained from Oliver Queen? _

That being how one doped up Felicity Smoak - IT girl, aged 23, MIT graduate and a colossal social disaster - had managed to crawl into the Hood’s cot bed… naked. Like a present with the label ‘Genius’ yanked off _real_ quick. Wet and naked- _because you have to be naked to shower and_\- it was pointless. Hopeless. No matter how she rationalised it, it didn’t make any difference; she’d showered in _Oliver’s_ shower and had made like Goldilocks into his bed. The place where he sleeps, where he _couldn’t_ sleep that night because, oopsie daisy, she’d toppled in headfirst. _Whilst, I repeat__, naked_.

Wet… _And_ naked.

No wonder he hadn’t been able to look her in the eye when she’d woken up. Luckily John had arrived just in time to stop the sheet covering her from falling down.

Throat closing - there was only so much she could want to curl up and die in the space of four days - forcing through a hearty laugh was a bit beyond her just then. “Right. _That_. Yeah.” A weak little piddle of utter self-deprecation and pure mortification wasn’t beyond her grasp, however. “If we never think about it again, it’ll be a ‘never’ too soon.”

A very male guffaw was cut off quite smoothly behind her.

Honestly, swallowing down shards of _glass_ might have been easier, if not for the permanent redness that had felt ever-present since that night. She felt like she’d been standing under a heat lamp for days. _Just put me out of my misery already_.

Unfortunately, life was never that kind.

“Alright.” There was something to be said about the male tone of voice when it was saturated in humour. “We’ve all done things under the influence.” _Name one, _one_, that tops climbing into a vigilante’s bed, wet and naked, John Diggle._ “Somehow,” he moved out from behind her, coming to a standstill to her left, “I don’t think you’re going to need to worry about being forgotten by us.”

How did he do that? How did he see that she’d been- “So,” she winced, peeking up at the kindness in those chocolate eyes, “you _won’t_ kick me out for inappropriate behaviour?”

Shaking his head with that perceptive _smile_ on his face, “define inappropriate to a pair of vigilantes,” he abruptly turned, purposefully strolling without vigour in the way that only certain men who take up vast amounts of space can do.

Finger flicking out at him, “good point.” Felicity slid up from her seat- _carefully_.

“Considering the things that I’ve seen Oliver do, the laws we’ve officially and unofficially broken already,” he called back to her from where he was disposing of the used surgical tools, “I think we can handle a little gross misconduct.”

She slumped, head titling to her shoulder, face scrunching up with miserable whine coaxing up from her throat. _Meanie_.

But, stood within the light instead of the shadows surrounding them both, John sent her a _look_. “I’m not the one who downed three of those things.”

“Okay,” _come on_, “I was in _pain_.” Brow arched, fingers pointed inwards at herself, she watched him press his lips together. “As in _delirious_ and…” on his sympathetic headshake, she saw his palms lift.

“Felicity,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you have nothing to reprimand yourself for. We know it was an accident.”

“We.” _The Royal We?_ Sighing - lips pursing around the words she couldn’t say - she gave up the ghost with a tentative question. “How is he?”

“Fine.” _Too quick_. As if he couldn’t quite give her a real answer, John gave her a little head jerk and tilt. “He’s dealing.” And that was hardly a better answer, but she had to give him credit. His eyes barely shifted with his response. “It was a lot to take in all at once.”

“No kidding.” She almost snorted; how does one reconcile the mother they thought they knew with the one who’d pointed a gun at him? That and, having to deal with a naked Felicity Smoak who decided to spend quality cuddle time with his pillow-less mattress. She cleared her throat. “Has he…” _Get a grip_. “Has he made it home at all in the last four days?” She forced out; shoulders tightening, hands twisting.

Worrying.

She’d dumped a lot on him despite having no choice and she hadn’t spoken to him since. He hadn’t spoken to _her_. And what could they say, where would they start? It would be like breaking a dam, except there wasn’t just a single dam. There were layers of them.

_I’m like an albatross_, like the suggestion in painting of the sinking ship in the Queen Manor. The mythical ship sinker. _I sink ships and take no prisoners_. She’d understand if Oliver never wanted to look at her or see her in his lair - repeat her name - ever again.

A heavy sigh gushed out of John. “No. He hasn’t.” Fiddling with something on the table in front of him that she was sure was meant for distraction than anything else, Mr Diggle didn’t look at her this time. “I keep trying to persuade him to talk to his mother, but…” he shook his head, “no dice.”

“I don’t really think there’s a manual for this.” It was odd how comfortable she felt, talking like this with men like them. Like Diggle. Revealing her inner nerd, her social pariah, her babbling headcase to a beautiful, bold, brave, strong man as she smiled in a way that she knew was simultaneously quirky and nervous. “I just,” she paused, eyes flicking down to her hands where they grasped into the woollen softness of her sleeves, “I wish it had come out another way.” _Any other way. _She gave an involuntary shoulder jerk. “I was supposed to-” have wine with him. “Meet him for coffee, not get shot by his mother.”

“Something tells me that,” turning to her, arms folding; he gave her a measured look, “unless he’d seen it with his own eyes, he’d have had difficulty believing you. Maybe this was the right way for it to come out.”

_Come on_. “It’s kind of you to say that but…”

_But_ John was already shaking his head. “Don’t underestimate how stubborn he can be.” And his dry smile was a testament to that. “I thought I knew the crème of stubborn minds in the military, but Oliver gives it a whole new meaning.” The smile lessened, his mind drifting elsewhere. “One day, it’ll get him hurt. Or hurt someone he loves.”

_He cares about him_. It was enough to give her heart all the feels. “Maybe he knows that.” She tried. “Maybe that’s why he reached out.” _To you._

To her.

A hum was her only response.

Watching him, it hit her then that maybe even John Diggle felt lost sometimes. “Hey John?”

The man blinked out of his haze. “Yeah?”

Twisting about, she nodded towards the monitors. “Want to help me out with something?”

* * *

“And,” tongue between her teeth, she secured a crocodile clip around the loose wires, “done.” Done and ready to use. “Half expected to hear a Dial-up frequency from this thing…” Lying under the bench, Felicity looked at the now neat, pristine and, relief worthily, _in-date_ set up on the underside. “At the very least I can leave him with a fully functional-”

Somewhere above her, a door opened and slammed closed.

_Eep!_ Legs jerking, her feet almost scored against the external hard drive she’d added to the surplus as an electronic _beep_ echoed through the Foundry.

_Uh oh. _

Heavy footsteps pounded downstairs. “Another dead end.”

_Frack_. Stomach seizing, _oh god_, heart rate rocketing and about ready to burst from her chest, she tucked, rolled - ignoring the sting on her shoulder - and began scrambling back out from under the desk-

“Whoever the seller is, he’s a ghost.” Because, seven times out of ten it was a male and- _Oh_, he sounded furious. Quietly so, and that made it worse for some reason. “No one can even give me a seller or the location of the manufacturer-”

Up on her feet, her head finally popped up from under the desk as he was talking and the rest of her followed; loose hair in her face, shirt off one shoulder, lob-sided glasses and all. Nervous, her hands were nudging the rim of her spectacles before he’d managed to fully turn her way from where he’d been setting down his bow.

“-but there’s a list of buyers branching out across the east side. I’ll head there next and-”

Then he saw her.

Breath held, face expressionless; he froze.

“Um,” she swallowed, giving him a tiny wave, “hi.” _Don’t hate me._

It was as if he’d run into a brick wall; taking his weight off one leg, he moved the other back, and his eyes fell away from her with it. “…hi.”

_Awkward_. “I-I hope you don’t mind.” Jerking her thumb behind her, even though he wasn’t looking, she started to ramble. “Your system looked like it was part of the 80’s and not the good part of the 80’s, like,” she pantomimed a classic Vogue pose; palms together and sliding from her face to her under her chin, “Madonna and, you know,” she pointed down, “leg warmers…”

Trailing off, she watched Oliver nod at the floor; the gloved fingers of one hand tapping together. The nervous tick that she’d pretended not to notice. It was simultaneously horrifying and intriguing for her to watch him be so… unnerved.

Because of her.

“Right.” His lips pressed together and once, twice; his eyes shot to her split-second chances. “Did… did John take out your stitches?”

Feeling oh so small and strangely burdensome, she answered quietly. “Yep.” Her lips made a popping sound on the p. “Just butterfly stitches now.”

“Good.” And he nodded too, jerkily. “That’s… that’s good.” And he sounded like it was good too.

He also sounded like he’d love to be anywhere but there right now.

“I’m sorry.” It just came out and she hadn’t wanted it to, but nerves did that to her. They made her mouth open and made her say things. “I’m _so_,” her eyes closed, hands coming together before her in supplication, “so sorry about the other night, Oliver.” She was not above begging at this point.

As the reminder brought him pain, he eyes squeezed shut. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_.” And she sounded miserable. “You rescue me, and I go and get myself high-”

“What do you remember?”

She blinked, shutting up. He’d been soft in the past, but this sounded weightless. So, affected by the discomfort of mortification, she hadn’t managed to process that once again, Oliver was in his night suit. _It_… she licked her lips; _it really does fit to where it touches_. It was a tight leather suit, it really was; with just enough manoeuvrability for him to breathe and stretch and pound the pavement in the hours between sunset and sunrise. But it also highlighted every muscle and curve.

It told her that he was very well endowed.

_Just my luck_. ‘Look but don’t touch’ was the motto and she’d be doing a lot of that because honestly, while he was wearing that it was almost impossible to look anywhere but at his crotch.

Or his buttocks.

Or those hands of his-

_I sound like a pervert_. _Or a repressed office girl. Or a sexually repressed, perverted office girl._ It wouldn’t be too far off, actually. Lord knows Felicity Smoak - to paraphrase many a frat boy in her past - hadn’t gotten any action in the pants department since- since _never you mind_ and _way too long ago to recall the details_. The fact that he was a good man made the whole thing so much worse.

The fact that she’d crawled into his bed, wet and naked, made his attractiveness a moot point. Like, she really didn’t have the right ogle how wonderful he was after… after that. _I dub thee that._

Shaking herself, she tried to concentrate; he made it so difficult. “Remember?”

“About…”so still, so quiet, she didn’t need to see his downcast eyes to know that they were dark and absolutely obscured in secrets of his own, “that night.”

The elusive ‘that’. “Oh.” Blushing helplessly - he still wasn’t completely looking at her - it was impossible to swallow her embarrassment. “Ah, I… I remember you giving me the pills.”

And… that was it.

Shuffling from one foot to the next, something extraordinary was happening to his face; as if he couldn’t quite pick the right emotion… _or_ he was feeling something too big for his heart to recognise just then.

It looked painful. It also looked adorable.

“You-” It took him another few seconds, during which she aged, died and was reborn. “You don’t remember anything after that?”

Again, he didn’t look at her.

This time, instead of finding it an odd mix of horrifying and endearing, Felicity wilted inside. It was _this_ bad? “Ah…” she tried desperately to pick up something. Anything. If only to stop herself from overthinking about how Oliver was now so offended - _god, what if he was disgusted_ \- he could barely look her in the eye. “Should I?”

He flinched. “No. It’s nothing.”

_Frack_. “I mean; did I do something else?” Something _more_ embarrassing than- “I did, didn’t I?” Realisation washed through her, giving his refusal to really look at her a whole new horrifying edge. “Of _course,_ I did; I don’t have an _off_ button. No filter. No grasp of social mores when I’m flying high-”

She couldn’t continue. It was worse than she’d thought and, hands covering her face, she decided that his idea – the not looking at each other thing – was a glorious one. It wasn’t until she was muttering nonsense under her breath that she heard him speak in stops and starts, loud enough to get through her mortified haze and wrench at her chest.

“You… you didn’t do anything- _Else_. You didn’t do anything else.” Freezing behind her hands, she spread her fingers and peeked at him through the gaps. He looked conflicted as hell. “It doesn’t matter.”

“…Okay.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “Let’s just forget about it.”

“I- I’m very good with that.” Wincing though when he exhaled - feeling small for some reason - she watched him shift as he slowly turned back towards where he’d dropped his bow; clearly leaving to ‘patrol’ once again was far more attractive than staying where he was.

_Ouch_.

It wasn’t entirely true that she didn’t remember. It was just that what she remembered didn’t make any sense; a blurred mess of warm water, Oliver’s voice and the feeling of safety. But how could she explain something like that?

“I need to go back out there.” He spoke down to his bow before lifting his arm and palming it at its centre-

“Is this about the Count?” She asked, curious.

He stilled. It was only for a moment and then his head was turning - his hand still resting on his bow - to send her a quizzical glance; looking at her fully for the first time. “What?”

She blinked. “The Count.” Securing an errant lock of her fringe behind one ear, she swallowed. “The drug baron responsible for the distribution of Vertigo?”

His eyebrows rising - and somehow her stomach moved up right along with them - Oliver blinked. Once. “Excuse me?”

_Oh God_. “I-uh-” _Shut up_. Hands bunching under her chin - as if grasping to her shirt would save her from drowning under the weight of his piercing glower - her lips pressed together. _Do _not_ swallow again_. “I-I thought you knew his name.”

“I did not.” His voice was rough; tone, low. Authority, present and accounting for. Patience?

Finite.

_Gulp_. “Kay.”

“Felicity.”

And all at once she was stood to attention, metaphorically and otherwise. “I knew that after what happened that night- you’d do everything in your power to help your sister, I just wanted to be prepared.” Moving swiftly on, because the time she’d reached ‘night’, his expression had darkened. “In case you…” vulnerability, shame and the strangest bout of loneliness made her briefly loose her voice. “In case you came to me for help.” Like he had been doing up until _that_.

Like he might never want to do again because of that.

Because of his mother.

Because of Walter.

Because of his _father_.

_Because of me._

“You looked.” Brows gradually dropping, his eyes searched her own. “You… hacked.”

It wasn’t a question.

_Uh_. “Was I not supposed to?”

For a moment he just stared at her. Then, we he spoke again, it was slow. “The Count?”

She nodded. “The lack of evidence,” or an actual profile, “in the SCPD database isn’t exactly filling me with confidence, but it looks like Vice and the Drug Enforcement Administration have joined task forces to tackle the rapid distribution of Vertigo.” It was becoming vastly more popular than marijuana and heroin, which was more than a little worrying. “And they’ve dragged in some of the Homicide Detectives because a victim went critical in the hospital after a single dose of the stuff. They can’t legally name it a homicide since there’s no warning on the label and consent is an actual thing they care about, so…”

“You hacked into the SCPD database?”

Gaze having roamed away with her explanation, it lifted back to him. Back to the surprise on his face as she gave her unsure response. “Yes?”

His own eyes side-lined. “Oh.”

She squinted at him. “What?”

“Nothing.” Not looking at her again, she watched his hand fall off his bow. “It’s just…” He shook his head, disbelieving. “The SCPD?”

Eyeing him, a very slight smile wormed its way through her nerves and insecurities, and she was taking a step closer before she could fathom why. “Is that judgement I’m hearing?”

Was that coquettishness she was hearing in her own voice? _What am I doing?_

But then blue eyes with bottomless pools of black in their centre were fixed on her like gravity; the difference between this and his earlier distance was startling. Face titled just enough that he was looking at her from underneath his lashes, he didn’t look away. “Awe.”

Transfixed, she waited for the moment; that second where he’d realise looking at her meant remembering the liberties that she’d taken with his home away from home.

She waited.

“You’re incredible.” His face didn’t gentle - expression quietly menacing as it was introspective - but his voice became this whisper _thing_ that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “You’re incredible, Felicity Smoak.”

She sucked in a breath. He sounded _sad_. Sad and frustrated and wistful and confused all at once.

She didn’t want him to. It was gut wrenching. “I crawled into your bed wet and naked and bleeding,” her nose scrunched; half because why am I bringing this up again and partly because she wasn’t sure how to handle the shadows carved into his face just then, covering his secrets, “how about we call it even?”

Eyes flickering to his right and back again, the sadness turned to guilt and discomfort; it weighed heavy and ever-present on his eye lids, corroding wistful into hopeless and the frustrated into reticence.

The confusion stayed right where it was. _He really is a mystery_-

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

The speed and quietness of the words made her question whether he’d said them at all. “Oliver?”

But the side door beeping open to reveal John Diggle toting some late night take out prevented any and all understanding of the man in green in before her. For now, at least.

“Your back.” He declared without really looking at the archer-

Oliver, who turned to stride away; back into the shadows.

He left his bow behind.

“Dinner?” John offered, lifting one bag a little before taking out the foil container inside.

She cleared her throat, nodding with a small smile as she palmed the back her neck; unable to speak just then.

The atmosphere was too full.

* * *

“So,” John muttered as he chewed, “the Count?”

Humming, Felicity shuffled the middle monitor into place; teeth biting down her lip when she saw the lack of unused USB ports. She’d have to upgrade and soon.

“Damn stupid name for a drug dealer.” He muttered.

“But it stands out.” Appreciating the smooth boot-up of the new servers, Felicity blew a piece of fringe out of her eyes. “Something tells me that whoever it is, he’ll fit the moniker.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Do you think Oliver fits the Hood?”

Brows lifting, Felicity turned to look at him.

He’d paused in eating, just looking at her as she wondered why he’d asked.

It took a few seconds for her to answer truthfully. “No.”

There was a discerning smile on his face. “Oh yeah? What would you call him?”

“Giving him an Alias would be suggestive of his mission. So far, all I know is that he hits names on a list given to him by his father. Going by that alone, you could call him any number of things. We both know the police are responsible for the signature _the Hood_ so that the residents of the city wouldn’t look upon him favourably.” Looking down at her hands as her fingers picked at her worn-out blue nail polish, she added. “Fat lot of good it did.”

If the news reels weren’t already lauding the Hood as a rising hero, journalists were clamouring for an interview with the elusive vigilante. It was telling of just how desperate Starling City had become that the people were turning to a man who shoots people with arrows at night; paying metaphorical libations to a Boogieman couldn’t be seen as anything else.

_And yet, the government leave the city well enough alone. _Welcome to America.

“Do the police know where this _Count_ operates?”

Brought back to reality, she cleared her throat. “That would be a _no_. But,” walking backwards was dangerous but she knew there was nothing behind her and she was making a point with a raised finger and everything, “they know where his dealers operate so,” feeling excitement start to pour freely into her fingers, she turned back around to her babies, “maybe there’s something there-_oh._”

Leaning against the side of her desk of sparkly-new monitors, Oliver stood in jeans and a dark blue Henley with his arms folded; gaze unreadable and facing the ground. “Where?”

Heart racing, hands already covering up her slip by logging into her interface, “I will tell you in just a few minutes,” she let out a slow, light release of air. _I am fine_.

She was fine when he budged off the desk, walking around it until he was stood _behind_ her and a little to her left. She was _still_ fine when he felt the need to lean in just enough as she typed so that he was in her peripheral and giving her a very clear view of just how tightly stacked his biceps were.

She was completely and utterly fine when he murmured. “I’ll get you a chair.”

“Um, you already have one.” Over by where he’d kicked it away and-

“It doesn’t provide appropriate lumbar support and you might be sitting in it for hours at a time.”

Blinking into nothing, she slowly turned her head towards him. “I’ll be doing what now?”

His eyes flit to her face. “You _aren’t_ joining the team?”

Her mouth opened, closed, and opened once again; mimicking the behaviour of her eyes. “You-” Mouth closing over the broken word, she licked her lips before re-trying. “You want me to on your little,” she waved a hand over the whole of him, “crusade?”

There was nothing _little_ about any of it.

“I,” his eyes side-lined again, as if he was perplexed by her during every other second of the day, “thought that was obvious.”

“Even after…” she let the sentence trail off when the full effect of his stony stare made her throat dry. “Never mind.”

Unyielding gaze still in effect, “You did upgrade my system.” Oliver reminded her.

“I did.” Fair was fair.

“So…”

Deep breath in, deeper breath out. “I want to help you.”

Lips pressing together, he nodded. “Okay then-”

“But only if you agree to help me look for Walter.” She forced the words to tumble out of her mouth before nerves could hold her back.

This time, both men had their eyes on her; one held a warning (or a promise), the other looked mildly curious if entertained.

“I know… I know this is a difficult situation-” Oliver turned away from her, arms still folded. _Yikes_. “But I promised myself if I could, I would find him. I’d bring him home.” Watching him stand there - at least hadn’t walked away from the reminder - she waited.

_Just give me a sign_. That he didn’t hate her for revealing the truth. She already knew that despite his possible personal preference for her absence, he wanted her skills. He valued her intelligence. She never had to question that and was grateful that he did. But it didn’t mean it would or could work; her arriving late at night into the Foundry, not if he saw her as a trespasser.

And it took him a minute. Literally a full minute, by the end of which her chest felt like it was being wrung out like a giant sponge and her legs are trembling until-

“Okay.” He said quietly, nodding with arms still folded and he barely looks at her, but it’s enough. “Okay.”

Then all she sees is his back, his muscles tight and bunched beneath his shirt as he walks away; deep into the Foundry, past the point where she can safely follow.

“Give him time.” She hears John say but she’s unable to look elsewhere. “He’ll come around.”

Or… he won’t.

_Hope floats_.

* * *

“Your sister’s Court Hearing is tomorrow.” Watching Oliver suit up his leather boots for the third time in 24 hours was making even John Diggle tired, _and that’s after two tours_. “I’m sure she’d appreciate you being there.”

It was better, with a man like Oliver, to make subtle verbal nudges instead of judgemental pushes out of the door.

_Not like he’ll listen to either_, Dig thought as Oliver straightened. “I’m sure she’d appreciate not having a conviction on file before she turns 20.” He responded clinically, all the while his eyes were… elsewhere.

_PTSD_. It made every word said, every move made, a challenge. John hadn’t realised just how much he’d needed challenging until he’d met Oliver Queen.

He exhaled. “You’re hunting down the Count?” He asked… and waited.

Gaze - mind - still far away, mouth just slightly open, Oliver continued fastening on the vambraces beneath his jacket.

John began to frown. “Oliver?” Still nothing. “_Oliver_.”

Blinking, head jerking quickly in some semblance of acknowledgment; Oliver reached for his gloves. “I’m hunting down the Count.”

“You realise that isn’t the first time you’ve zoned out on me the past few days, right?”

Sending him a flat look, “Feeling unheard Dig?” Oliver walked away-

“Hey.”

Stopping, Oliver’s quads unclench by the tiniest bit and took it as permission to say it.

“You realise that she thinks you hate her now.”

For a moment Oliver didn’t say anything. John just watched him breathe. Then, without turning, he responded. “If I hated her, this would be a lot easier.” Head tilting slightly so that John could see one eye, he added, “I’m not ready. Right now, I need to be there for Thea.” His grasp on his bow tightened. “After everything, I owe her that much.”

“And your mother?”

It was one push too many. “Not tonight Dig.”

“Oliver-”

“I _said_-” Jaw tightening, teeth clenching behind a closed mouth, he watched Oliver barely manage a semblance of control. “Just… check on Felicity before you go home.”

“You mean before or after _you_ check on her.” John whispered as he watched the man walk over to his motorcycle, because he had been. Every night.

_“If I hated her, this would be a lot easier.”_

What exactly would be easier?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Felicity doesn't remember. Yet. It can take time but not much. Can't wait.  
As with any other time, your reviews SUSTAIN me - please let me know how you feel. I hope you're all doing well.  
I'll be bringing in some other characters very soon; Thea, Tommy, Laurel and Quentin.


	14. Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing Thea's case being sent to trail on the news and still healing from her gunshot wound, Felicity makes an attempt to get out of the limbo space that she's in by heading off for a visit with a certain hard-faced detective... it's a shot in the dark but maybe it'll help.  
Maybe it'll ease the tension in the air between herself and certain hooded man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! I hope this one makes sense. The next chapter is the final part of three but whilst this chapter is needed, it's also very much a stepping stone to the next chapter. Ergo, the title.  
Also, I will respond to all reviews - just had some other things that I needed to do first.

“So, let me get this straight-”

“You put the lime in the coconut?”

In an instant, Detective Lance transformed from a confused, if somewhat tetchy old timer cop, to a crotchety, stone-faced hard ass of a homicide detective.

_Oops_. She had to remember that not everyone was like Oliver; they didn’t have his patience _or_ his grace, it seemed. It was an odd moment to think about him, but the Detective had continuously brought Oliver’s behaviour with her into a new light in the last ten minutes.

Oliver… did he like her rambling as he’d insinuated, or was he just too decent to stop her?

“Sorry.” She fumbled after ten seconds too long of the Detective’s flat stare. “Um, you were saying?”

But he was already squinting at her. “Who did you say you were again?”

Five minutes before she’d walked into the Precinct as bold as brass; inside she’d been shaking. Running on fumes, on an idea she should never have entertained - like a puppet on the string of her own whimsy - she’d walked up to Detective Quentin Lance before she could second guess or doubt herself and had lied.

She’d lied to a _cop_.

To the cop dad of _Laurel_ Lance, Oliver’s seemingly ex-everything.

To the Detective determined to hunt down and unmask - uncover, un-hood, _reveal_ \- the sole reason why the police stood a hope in hell’s chance of keeping the Glade’s under control.

The man who hated and blamed Oliver for the death of his daughter.

_What was I thinking?_ “I know this feels like it’s coming out of left field,” she randomly started with, knowing she sounded like she knew diddly squat about sports but was making an effort, despite the quiver in her voice, “but I think this could be a really good opportunity-”

“For whom?” He threw at her, settled in his seat but strangely - eternally - frustrated with her. With the world. With himself. “The homeless sector doesn’t need an 18-year-old spoiled brat picking at her nails whilst she pretends to do dishes.”

Wincing, she realised that hurrying on seemed to be the best policy. “So, you think that she deserves jail time then? For being rich. And a brat.”

Rich? Yes. Brat?

_“You should throw this one back, Ollie.” Thea muttered to her brother on the end of a long-suffering sigh as she passed, her gorgeous locks somehow keeping strictly to her head and not bouncing away with each step. “At least the model was prettier.”_

…Maybe.

Blinking fast, _um_, Felicity fought the urge to look away from eyes that had seen so much more than her own. “A conviction, at her age - despite her family and her fortune - wouldn’t _just_ be detrimental to her health.”

“Oh yeah?” Head tilting, tone acerbic and less than pleasant, Quentin Lance crossed something off on a report he’d been finishing up; it was like he was trying hard not to care about any of this when all everything ever did was infuriate him beyond compare. “You want to enlighten me then on why you don’t think it would do her some good?”

“Didn’t you ever arrest and apprehend a kid who you _knew_ a conviction would make crumble an already shaky foundation? Someone who just needed some help and not a one-way trip down a dead end? I think Thea Queen attending trial would destroy any chance she has.” At anything; at being someone others look to or care about, at a healthy life. _Take your pick_. “She’d do the same stupid things over and over again.” Those harsh eyes shot her a deeply annoyed glance, teeth grinding and pushing out his jaw line. “You aren’t serving the law by letting Judge Brackett make an example out of her; you’re just looking the other way.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Dropping the pen, the veneer of concentration dropped and a sneer rose to take its place. “Take it easy on the poor rich girl?”

“That’s the _third_ time you’ve brought up her fortune.” She said, tone introspective at the worst time.

“What,” and the snide derision in his huff of ill-humour made her flinch, “am I supposed to feel _sorry_ for her? The Queen family probably already have an army of lawyers waiting to step in line.”

“And that’s the second time you’ve brought up her family…”

“Am _I_ being profiled now?” He snapped.

Taking a breath, she swallowed; just looking at him… looking at him until he sighed and lifted a hand up to rub the bone at the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want from me?” He ground out.

It felt oddly like… progress.

She pressed her lips together. “I don’t want anything from you. I’m just asking _someone_ in this precinct to realise that maybe giving a young woman like Thea Queen,” someone who had a lot but who’d also lost much more and didn’t have the emotional stability to deal with either - or the return of her brother from the dead - in any kind of healthy way, at least not one that didn’t hurt herself and others, “a _real_ look at the world around her, might prove a more reliable method of rehabilitation than throwing her to the wolves, just so that a rich judge can stay rich.”

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. Judge Brackett was one of the few fair judges left in the city, despite his… affiliations. Like every other Judge in the city. _Unlike_ every other judge, Brackett had made a stand against organised crime, the provision of drugs and its spread that made him particularly heavy weight in his sector. If he wanted a rich kid to go to trial, she’d go straight to trial; no passing go, no collecting two hundred dollars.

It took a great deal of poise to appear unaffected as the Detective glared at her. _Maybe this was a bad idea-_

“And your idea,” he abruptly bit out - controlling himself at the end of every word - whilst doing his level best not to break the weathered corner of his desk in his iron-knuckled grip to crumbly pieces, “is to have _Miss_ Queen serve an indeterminate amount of time serving a community sentence by helping out at a homeless shelter?”

The way he made it sound, like it was an absolute disaster waiting to happen… A mockery of the law. She cleared her throat, determined to sound as good a spokesperson as an IT girl possibly could. “Actually,” because it meant something dammit, “it’s a group of shelters.” Reaching into her fancy pants briefcase - _thank you John Diggle_ \- she pulled out a file with a laminate cover; from a single glance it was clear that the initiative was new, which was exactly the impression she’d wanted to give. “Working in accord with various charities, Starling’s shelters want to be considered as avenues for community service. Clearly, they need the manpower,” and the funding, “but the attention might get them a little more in the way of-”

“Money?” He grunted, but he was already nose deep in the file. “Leny?” He glanced up at her and, for the first time, looked not only surprised but also without the scowl. “Leny Carter?”

She blinked. “Um, yes?”

It was like he needed a moment. Or three. “_Leny_ runs a homeless shelter?”

_He knows Leny?_ Leny the cute as a button, six foot three, ex-military man who’d made her hot chocolate with honest to goodness marshmallows at Christmas this year and last. “Actually, he runs all three of them.”

He harrumphed, staring down at the paperwork for a moment before mumbling to himself. “Of course, he does.”

And then he flipping over a page and began to read… and read.

_You can do this_; she could get it all out. “I’m aware that a probationary sentence would probably be part of the package-”

“You’re damn right it will be.” He grumbled down at the paperwork.

Will. Not _would_. Will. Whether he realised it or not, he was considering it. “But,” and she tried to keep her residual nerves - and hopes - out of her voice, “I’m optimistic for a measure of leniency in this case; Thea Queen hadn’t been 18 years of age for more than a handful of hours when she took Vertigo. There are older men and women serving lighter sentences for committing far greater crimes in this city.”

No five-year probationary period, not for a lost teenager who was still in school, who’d almost died that night herself. Irresponsible, _not_ the devil.

Looking up from the file now, those dark eyes stared at her. “Why do you care so much?”

Tricky question, trickier answer. “I saw an opportunity to promote a charity. I’ve been volunteering there for a couple of years; I haven’t seen a single cent go into the place that wasn’t out of Leny’s pocket.” Leaning back in her seat, Felicity let out a very real breath of weariness. It had been a long week. “Besides, I think…” her eyes met his. “Don’t you think that this city could do with a little charity? Someone like you,” _especially_ someone like him, “probably sees that more than most. I’m sure there’s been more than one occasion where you’d wished a verdict had gone another way and not because the guilty party was innocent.”

But because they could be _saved_, and sometimes… sometimes the law - being reason-free from passion - left rehabilitation at the door. Sometimes, they threw away the key; they - the leaders; the sinners - arbitrarily decide that any effort involved is any effort too much.

“Besides,” she continued, simultaneously comfortable with staying right where she was and eager to get the hell out of dodge, “I think menial labour could sweeten her disposition.” An heir to the Queen dynasty in need of reform, forced to do working class labour for free? Every judge, jury member, lawyer and cop too used to being snubbed and steamrolled by upper-class elitism and money, would want a piece of that action. “One day, you might be very glad that Thea Queen was given community service with a homeless initiative.”

Looking up at her in incredulity, Detective Lance humped. “You’re talking like I’ve already gotten the judge to back off his hard-line stance.”

Irate, crabby, contrary. It was a state of mind, not a reaction to her presence. A slow, grateful smile lit her up from the inside. He was going to give it a shot; she could see it on his rumpled, cantankerous face.

“Jesus.” He exhaled, throwing down his pen and reaching for the phone on his desk. “I’m making zero promises to you. You hear me?” He added; brows high into his hairline, he waited for her nod, which she gave to him, triple time. “Zero.”

* * *

“Felicity?”

Blinking, she turned; wincing as her bag strap slid over her bandage. _I need to stop carrying shoulder bags-_

But there was Oliver, standing in front of the doors to the SCPD where she’d just left, and all thought of pain flew out of the proverbial window. “Oliver.” Redundant. As was her double take. He knew who he was. He knew who _she_ was. The question was, why were they both in the same place at the same time? “What- who…?” _Fail_. Finger flicking from him to the door, bewilderment pulled at the space between her eyebrows as she watched him bodily move to face her-

Watched him breathe, watched his lashes flicker and his Adams Apply bob, watched his body stop and start, spoilt - deprived - of choice.

-Watched him take her in, both surprised and… something else. _I can’t read him_. “Did something happen?” She tried.

“No, I…” Large shoulders shrugged, and his head shook. It felt like an attempt at normality. As if he were _dazed _and trying to bring himself out of his funk. “It’s nothing.” He breathed out, inquisitive and curious and- “Are you okay?”

Concerned. He was concerned.

He’d seen her exiting the police station less than a week after being kidnapped and shot by his mother- he could be anything. Vindictive. Righteous. Wary. Ashamed.

But he was concerned. Feeling it somewhere behind her diaphragm, she wondered if it were same thing that was making him lean towards her just a bit. The thing that was making his amazing jaw line soften as those gorgeous eyes caught the light, which was… generous really. Despite knowing that the events of the last week had made him, at the very least, wary of her - that she was an every present reminder that his mother wasn’t the woman he’d believed her to be - she couldn’t help but wonder whether they were capable of getting past it. At least enough to trust each other. She really hoped they could- or rather, if _he_ could. She was already right there, hopeful. Waiting. Unusually ‘all in’, considering that her life had been in clear and definite danger recently. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe there always had been.

And- _he looks _really_ good_. No shock there. Every day. _He looks good every single day_. In the past 48 hours, that feeling felt unfairly amplified.

It made speaking a whole lot more difficult. “Yeah, I-” _Oh_. _Wait_. Should she... tell him? About Detective Lance and her insane proposal? “I heard about your sister.” Was what left her instead, because- _did I just interfere? _Did asking Detective Lance to speak to the judge make her a massive nosy parker? Apprehensive, she pushed onwards. “It was on the news.” The refusal of a plea bargain from the judge and the ludicrous set-price of bail - the kind of money that only the Queen family could pay out - as well as Thea’s upcoming trial. “You must be really worried.”

The subject of whether his mother was too, could be avoided for all time as far as she was concerned. Watching Mrs Queen walk with her head held high as the rest of the Queen family were accosted by swarms of journalists as they walked the steps towards the Court House, as Oliver had taken his sisters hand to pull her through the throng - avoiding his mother’s voice - had sent a swarm of anxiety, compassion, confusion, distrust and guilt down into her gullet.

Where did they even start?

At the moment, Oliver had no choice but to battle through it in whichever way was best for him and, if her intuition was correct, he was _dealing_ through avoidance. _As the avoidance master, I approve. _The only problem was that avoidance came with a price sometimes too steep to pay. Time was as much a foe as a friend. But sometimes, if no other answer was available, avoidance was the _only_ answer.

A breath puffed out of him. “Yeah, I…” he looked back towards the entrance to the precinct, throat moving through a swallow. “I was hoping whoever was heading off the hunt for the Count would be amenable to sharing information.”

“What information?” She bluntly, immediately asked.

Mouth opening - eyes narrowing in question - Oliver asked her to explain without saying a word.

“Remember how I said that I, er,” furtively, she glanced about them before steeping in close to him - stomach twisting at the way his throat moved and his expression hardened - and whispering conspiratorially, “_hacked_ into the SCPD?” Eyes flitting all over her face, frowning slightly, he grunted an affirmative. “And found that they have next to nothing on Vertigo?” He nodded, frown deepening. “Well… I _meant_ that, Oliver.” She searched him because nothing had changed, why did he think it would? “They have nothing.” Zip, nada, bupkis and though their friend zilch had yet to make an appearance, it was quite terrifying to know for sure just how ill equipped the SCPD were in Starling.

_I mean, I knew_… everybody knew. Anybody who lived in the city fell into one of three group; victims, bystanders and active participants in making a bad situation, worse. _Kind of makes me a victim now, doesn’t it?_ Wasn’t that a nice thought? From bystander to victim overnight-

To vigilante sidekick?

Yes. A very nice thought.

It took a few near-excruciating seconds of silence - _nearly_ excruciating, because watching Oliver’s face suffer a some sort of heavy internal blow wasn’t her idea of a good time - as this before-unseen vein thudded in his jaw before he was able to grit out. “They have to have _something_.”

_Oh, Oliver_. “They don’t.”

“Then what do I do?” The words were quick, his tone taut and his hands were doing their level best to stay put by his side. “If I don’t try, Thea will have to stand trial.” And the more he spoke and the tighter his words became, the more evident his concern was. “She’ll go to prison. She’ll see just how unfair the world is,” he was already pushing forwards on all cylinders because that’s what desperate people do, “that it can be a dark and unjust place and Thea- she isn’t ready for that.”

“Oliver-”

“I will do anything,” he continued, mere inches from her face; intense in a way she hadn’t expected him to become with her, not ever; but it was as if he didn’t really see her, “_anything_ to protect her from that.”

_Because you weren’t protected?_

“I- I can see that.” She managed, reaching for stable ground in a wholly unfamiliar situation; _so, this was how Oliver is when his loved ones are at stake._ “And it’s great.” Sort of, given that whatever he was feeling was allowing him to look fully at her without side-glancing once; but she’d rather him do that than be feeling whatever was making his face pull such a wretched expression. “Just- you know, not all avenues lead to the police, right?”

So close to her, him blinking out of befuddlement looked somewhat comical.

“I had an idea.” She said, filling his silence. “Since they have bupkis,” she waved a hand at the building to her left, “and since your so good at the whole ‘don’t fear the night, fear me’ thing that you do,” his forehead did this cute little crease thing, a major step up from cute curiosity and, no; she didn’t need this extra reminder that she was so very screwed _forever_ thank you very much, “I thought you’d be up for it.”

“For…” he licked his lips, which was _just_ fine, “what?”

“We need a sample. The biggest wall in their investigation is that they have no evidence; just reports, victims with memory issues and hearsay. They wasted enough time trying to extrapolate a sample of Vertigo from that man in the hospital the other week.” The drug itself miraculously breaks down within hours of its uptake, because once it’s done its job, once the host’s Hypothalamus is played for a fiddle, it isn’t needed anymore. “If we can- if _you_ can land a sample,” too close, too close, “we should be able to track the compound to its manufacturer, thereby-”

“Finding the Count.” He finished for her, the proverbial light in his eyes loosening some of the tension away from his face. “And give Judge Brackett someone to aim at who isn’t an 18 year old.”

In this moment, she wouldn’t dream of stating the obvious; that his sister had a mind of her own and willingness to use it. She chose to take drugs and make everyone question whether she was aiming to commit suicide. Not in the least because that night came with not-so pleasant memories of her own, Felicity couldn’t quite agree with Oliver’s assessment of a young girl free of immorality. Troubled teen? Check. Selfish rich kid? Check. Innocent victim of drug use? …_I’ll get back to you on that one._

Actions have consequences. It was possible that this was the first time that Miss Queen had to truly suffer any. _Ergo, my lame attempt at playing actress just now_. Faking credentials was easy, acting the part? That had come surprising fluidly too. _Huh_.

But for now, Oliver needed exactly zero reminders that maybe his sister needed a very different kind of help. “Exactly.” _Yay_. _Take it away, Mr Queen. _Anything to make his expression less worried than it did-

“I think I might know a way to do that.” He said to her, to the air, to himself – he wasn’t completely with her just then and that was okay too.

It really was. There was a lot Oliver was facing, proven by how they hadn’t really… talked. They should, but they hadn’t. They needed to, but… it felt like there was a barrier there. That until Oliver could grasp solid ground, _that_ night couldn’t be touched.

Until then, there would be a strain instead of a thrill in the buzz of the air between them. A heaviness to the light flutter in her stomach. An ache to each and every glance.

But the Hood, _he_ had a plan; he had someone to aim his arrows at. Something to concentrate on that wasn’t his mother or the IT Girl he’d reached out to without knowing just how deeply entrenched she might become in his world.

A plan, a path, given to him by-

_By me_.

And for some reason, that was the moment. Right there. It hit her: Oliver Queen was a vigilante; a man who broke the law nightly, who injured, maimed and _killed_ like he’d been trained all his life to do just that, instead of spending his family’s money.

Oliver. Killed. People.

And, however unwittingly - see no evil, hear no evil - she might have been helping him.

Finally, his gaze returned to her and it was as if he’d complete forgotten where they were. So had she. “I need to go.”

“You-” Oliver killed people. He’d hurt and killed people. “Do you…” Her pause as she took him in - as realisation settled in, as she thought about for just one moment what the ever loving frack she was considering here - made him _breathe_; made his gaze flicker over her, awareness sinking into the contours of his face. He looked… _affected_. She couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad thing. “Do you need help?”

Oliver broke the law and yet, here she was. Offering to help.

“Help?” Brow lifting, he looked caught between thoughts. “With… what?”

“With,” she gestured vaguely all over him, “getting your hands on a sample of Vertigo.”

Oliver he’d killed people.

It took him a moment to respond; body utterly still save for the emotion lodged in his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple. Until-

“You want to help me?”

He looked so surprised... Thrown even. It made him seem younger and- alone. He looked alone, that was what she was seeing; just like he had that first time he’d walked into her office, wretchedly alone and all the more devastating because of it. But there were other things that shone through the fake smiles and the real ones, the sad ones and the ones that told of scars and bruises years old. He was determined and resourceful and lethally capable. She’d thought that before she’d realised the truth; he looked naturally, inexplicably, deadly. In the same way wolves were, even as they let people pet them. But this was the first time she’d seen that flicker of something in his eyes that he did everything in his power to squash - if the way he blinked hard, the way he kept deliberately still told her anything - before it could light a fire.

Hope.

Oliver killed people. Yet he hoped. And if she was remotely skilled in her own right in reading him, hope terrified him.

“Yes.” It didn’t bother her. “Of course, I do.” It didn’t bother her that Oliver was a killer. It didn’t bother her at all. “It’s for your sister.”

Shouldn’t it though?

It wasn’t as if she couldn’t see the problem here; murder is bad. Morality 101; don’t confuse kindness with goodness.

But she knew who she was inside; she knew how she viewed the world, the grey lines between the black and white. She knew what was good, what was bad and that rarely do people appreciate the multitudes of meaning beneath those lines.

Oliver had killed people, but from what she could tell Oliver was also fighting a secret war and in war, people were killed. No one questioned when a soldier raises their rifle, when they line their targets up in sight; it doesn’t occur to anyone to be bothered that the target is 100% always another person.

She didn’t know everything about Oliver, clearly. What she did know, was that Oliver didn’t _seem_ to be enjoying racking up a murder count throughout the city. And he did everything he could to hide the piece of himself that he’d covered in darkness and blood, be it from shame or for the protection of those he held dear.

Penitence? She didn’t know. She had no idea really if this was fun for him or if he were trying to make a difference. But something was pushing him, something stronger than respecting the dead; something deeper and certainly more hazardous than a promise to his father.

_“My father.” He didn’t elaborate. “This list represents a group of people who are actively contributing to the detriment of the city.”_

_“There’s a chance,” she slowly spoke, “that your parents were part of the same group or had ties with members of that list.”_

He was paying for something. And maybe putting on a hood at night allowed him to function during the day. Allowed him to cover up ghosts that he didn’t want to hear whisper in his ear. If that was true… she didn’t know. She didn’t know what to think.

But he’d brought in John Diggle. He’d gone to her for help. He’d reached out.

And right now, he seemed to be struggling with that choice. “It is. It’s for my sister.” He repeated; mouth opening, closing. “Right, I- _no_. I mean…” It was like he’d forgotten that she _knew_ for a moment. “I have contacts.” And he nodded to himself. “They can set up a meet for me.”

Her eyebrows flew right up. “As Oliver and not… you know.”

Hands lifting, she pantomimed pulling back on the string of a bow - the smallest bow in existence with her fingers flicking at the end, _kapow_ \- and wanted to frown at the way he pressed his lips together as he watched her.

“This way,” he explained, still looking slightly stiff and she had the odd impression that he was trying hard not to react, “I can protect my contacts as well as put a tracker on the Count.”

Eyeing the way his fingers and thumb were rubbing together, Felicity cleared her throat. “Well that- that’s great.” Cue somewhat awkward breathing, shuffling, trying not to look at him whilst only managing to do just that. “Except, you know…” Add random hand movement at his person as she tried to phrase her next words as elegantly as possible. “If you get caught, it’ll be Oliver Queen’s face pasted all over CNN tomorrow instead of the Hood’s.”

If the way his expression settled, quietening just a touch - eyebrows slackening, flattening - as he stared at her was anything to go by, he seemed to find the notion a little absurd. “I won’t get caught.”

Now why was _that_ hot? It shouldn’t have been, but it was; he was a vigilante who could back his words and a gay tingle swimming downstream told her she was very much on board with it.

_Does this make me a bad Felicity or a good Felicity?_

The intense lick of it messed with the twist of embarrassment that made her tongue tie itself into incoherent knots of stupid. “O-of course.” Smile a little demented, she was oddly startled at his surety. “This is _not_ your first rodeo.” It wasn’t even his first or second rodeo- _Rodeo_. Who says that? She said that, just Felicity Smoak_, because I can’t keep my mouth shut or my thoughts to my-_

“Right.” _Oh_. She’d zoned out for a second there. “I better…”

…Go?

Shifting on the spot, nodding once in that uncomfortable way people do when they’re trying to leave but having to stay; Oliver made a great show of _not_ having a pint-sized obstacle, who wasn’t seeing the signs, standing in his way.

And once again, he was having trouble looking her fully in the eye.

Yeah… He was done. With her.

_“You have nothing to apologise for.”_

But maybe the damage was already done. Maybe this truly was how it would be now between them; awkward and tense and _careful_. It was a painful feeling; a sinking feeling. They’d been anything _but_ careful with each other, verbally at least, from day one. Fumblingly honest - naturally so - and curiously human.

_“I need it go well. I mean, it _ _will_ _ go well. I just…” He was having trouble articulating himself._

Endearingly surprised.

_Taking her in - eyes flitting to her hair this time, to her delicate earrings, _ _a gift from my Bubbe_ _ \- he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “Yeah.” Firmer this time, as if maybe it really was fine. “Absolutely yes.” Eyes holding hers, it took all four syllables of _ _absolutely_ _ for this new and improved smile to blossom on his face._

And so inexplicably fascinating.

_“And _you_ need that?”_

_But the way he said it…_

_Frowning, she eyed him over her glass as she took another sip. “Do you?_

_Only his eyes moved, meeting hers. Then his hand moved, lifting the wine to his mouth._

_He never blinked._

_Neither did she._

Was it really any wonder that she was already missing it?

“Okay.” She whispered and it did- did _not_ sting, his need to escape. Not at all, _nope_\- “Do you want me there?”

It just came out.

He blinked.

“Or not.” Eyes squeezing shut, she floundered. “Ah- or I _could_. Like tonight- or not at all, I-I mean I’m sure you could do it all by yourself,” and what was she even saying, because out of context and to the outside observer, _I sound like I’m offering to_\- “Never mind, I’ll just…” just what? Die and be reborn a socially conscious human being? If wishes were horses. “Forget I said anything.”

But he was Oliver. So, of course this was going to go one of two ways; either he’d pretend to do exactly that which didn’t change a thing, or-

“You want to be there?”

He’d address it. He’d address it, wait for her to reciprocate and hold nothing back; not the wonderment, the surprise in his tone. Not the way she’d startled him out of the façade of apathy or feckless elitism. Not the way his eyes were telling her something that his mouth wasn’t.

“Well…” his voice and the way he was looking at her made finding words feeling like a grasp at tiny falling straws. “You did say ‘okay’ the other night.”

_And it took him a minute. Literally a full minute, by the end of which her chest felt like it was being wrung out like a giant sponge and her legs are trembling until-_

_“Okay.” He said quietly, nodding with arms still folded and he barely looks at her, but it’s enough. “Okay.”_

And just as quietly now-

“You really want in?”

As if he thought that she’d change her mind, given enough time. Enough time was two days apparently. “I wouldn’t have said that I do if I didn’t.” _That’s not who I am._

And maybe he was finally getting the picture. “…Okay.”

Tentative, Felicity searched for the man who’d talked about wine, who’d looked at her with blatant curiosity and terrifying perceptiveness, who’d listened to her rambles and babbling spirals with the kind of rare patience and congeniality that made her chest tighten with the thought of it being ripped away from her. “Yeah?”

Eyes side-lining, Oliver swallowed something down. “Yeah.” Fast. “Yes.” Certain. Stance shifting, he glanced somewhere over here shoulder. “I want you there.” His voice cracked a little; as if he couldn’t believe his own words and he couldn’t quite look at her again as he spoke them - as he flip-flopped through emotions like channels on a remote - but it didn’t matter. His voice, his eyes; they painted a vivid picture.

He really wanted her there.

She wanted to be there.

Everything else, it was background noise. She could work through it. They could work through it; they could figure out a rhythm. “Then I’ll be there.”

One quick nod, his eyes dropped to the ground. “Nine?”

Her head tilted. “Nine?”

A deep breath in was followed by a deeper one out. “Can I pick you up at nine?”

“I-I can drop off myself.”

“You were shot.” The fact that he was addressing it _any_ way, the fact that he was looking straight at her again as he bluntly stated the truth, made her jaw drop. “I’m picking you up.”

As in, end of story.

And it was sweet, you know, even as it made her hackles rise. “Fine.”

But it was startling when he _responded_ to her inflection of irritation. “_Fine_.” Brow tapered, neck tense, jaw taut, voice lowering an octave; Oliver all but growled out the word. “Nine.”

“O-okay.” _Whoa_. “Nine.”

Eyes hard on hers until the very last second, until some instinct or internal voice decided for him that it was time to leave, Oliver stepped off one foot and onto another and before she knew it, he’d fallen into the verve of the city. After three seconds of watching him go, he disappeared between one person and the next.

_…How does he do that?_

Shaking herself out of her daze, she couldn’t quite decide on how she was feeling. She was all in. But they had some miles to go before everything could feel normal between them.

It wasn’t the start of something brand new; that had happened months before. No, this had been a handshake but without the hands. Or the shake.

It was trust.

“I’ll tell him later.” About Detective Lance and her offer. “If I make a dent.”

* * *

** _Later…_ **

_“Congratulations.” _Said the voice on the other end of the line. _“Judge Brackett agreed to the terms and conditions of your proposal.”_

Stood just inside of the open door of her car, Felicity’s face resembled that of a demented owl. “You got him to back off his hard-line stance?”

Detective Lance grunted. _“You sound surprised.”_ His gruffness was marred slightly by the grudging delight he took at her tone. _“He agreed to 500 hours of community service,”_ yikes but understandable- _“and a year’s probation.”_

Disconcerted, stunned, she backtracked. “Just one year?”

_“Yeah, I was surprised too but apparently I made a good case._” It was warming, truly, that he’d tried for more, but she was very sure that seeing the name Leny Carter on file as a sponsor had helped more than little bit. _“I asked for the paperwork to be sent over; you can pick it up at the end of the week.”_

Relief made her spine go bendy. “Thank you. So much.”

Gratitude seemed to throw the good detective, which was either very telling of the state of Starling or he was the spokesperson for ornery, middle aged hard asses everywhere. _“Yeah. Well.”_ He cleared his throat. _“Prove me wrong and we’ll call it even.”_

He hung up.

Maybe it wasn’t safe to stand in the middle of an alley way, but this alley way was owned by Oliver Queen and for the first time in a long time, Felicity felt like she’d finally done something worthwhile. It made her need to pause and breathe and smile at damp wall just ahead. _It worked._ There’d be no trial.

She had to tell him.

Smiling like a kid at school, she tottered over to the back entrance to the Foundry – forgetting instantly that Oliver hadn’t arrived at her house at 9pm to pick her up or that he was ignoring his mobile or that john hadn’t answered her calls or that it was now over an hour later – having kept her blue heels on after putting on sum skinny jeans, because sometimes women needed to feel pretty, and entered the combination key on the external pad. _That needs an update_, she thought as she stepped through the open door before locking closed once more. Replacing it altogether would be best, _I’ll tell him_. After she let him know about Judge Bracket, which - if she were being honest with herself - she was nervous about. It didn’t matter if this helped Thea, she was already immersed in his world to an unwanted extent that she was sure he found alarming to say the least. Knowing that she’d acted for the greater good wouldn’t soften his discomfort. _This may go badly_, not unlike his life had gone every day that week. _I’ll just-_

Stop and stare, struck dumb in horror at the sight of John Diggle restraining a thrashing vigilante - a topless, sweating, snarling and gasping Oliver Queen - who was doing his absolute best to not hurt his bodyguard and comrade whilst the rest of his body had other ideas, as he tried to remain lying down on the very hard, very cold, medical table.

Mouth open, her happiness sank to the floor as another, stronger emotion rose to the surface. “Oliver!”

Quick as a flash, John Diggle’s head whipped about to see her. “No! stay over there-”

But she was already almost by his side. “What the frack happened?” Hands rising to do… something, she stared at Oliver whose eyes were wide; his pupils beyond dilated, skin white as bone despite the way he was resisting whatever was in his system that was making him-

Vertigo.

“He told me he had a plan.” She managed to get out over the clatter and bag of Oliver’s feet fighting the obvious pain his body was going through. “How did his plan end up with him getting dosed?” She threw at John, sounding less than happy and it was a bit of a shock to her really; the amount of vehement concern inside of her that was quickly funnelling what normally a very collected temperament.

“He-” Arm shooting down to wham Oliver’s shoulder back down onto the table, she flinched at the noise it made. “He set up a meet with the Count through his Bratva contacts.”

And could they just rewind that sentence again? Bratva. Oliver had contacts in the Bratva, which… _well, it would explain the Russian insignia on his chest- this is neither the time nor the place Felicity!_ “I’m guessing it didn’t go as planned?” She asked feebly.

Teeth grit, John finally managed to get Oliver’s hands down towards the man’s sides and whilst it was difficult, Oliver was trying not to fight him. _Crazy strong men_. “No, it did not.” Urgency in his movements, she watched John wait for Oliver to reach through the strain in his expression in order to give him a nod - a go ahead - before ambling over towards the weathered trunk she’d glimpsed at on her last visit. “The SCPD arrived, got in the way.” And wasn’t it surreal that she believed that? That instead of thinking that the police would help, she’d instinctively agreed that they were more hindrance than helpful. _Starling City. _“The Count fled, and Oliver went after him.”

“And got dosed because he couldn’t hide behind leathers and a hood.” She finished, watching Oliver as he barred his teeth from under lips thinned by pain and whatever else he was feeling, as his knuckles turned white from the pressure of the fists he’d made and the way his back bowed and arched, how sweat coated his chest as it bucked and twisted under wave after wave of torture. “Oliver.” She whispered, concern making way for fear; but she was afraid to touch him. “What can I do?” She asked John without looking away. “Do you need me to go-”

She didn’t see it coming.

One second, Oliver had fixed himself to the table and the next, his arm had shot out and his hand had reached her shoulder-

Her injured shoulder.

Fingers pressing in, teeth on display, eyes manic, aggression in every twitch and shift, he _yanked_ her towards him-

“Ow!”

Seizing in place - the veins in his neck bulging - Oliver stared at her.

“It’s okay.” She tried to rectify, her hand uselessly patting his shaking bicep, _you are very sweaty Mr Queen_, “you’re okay.” She eyed Dig in her peripheral flipping the lid down on the trunk so fast something chipped off of it. “He’s just getting the uh… uh…” She had no idea.

She was just trying to ease the terror on a face she’d grown very fond of.

“John.” She squeaked-whisper-whimpered because- _Oliver can’t talk_. Muscles coiling and uncoiling, the drug in his system wreaking havoc with his fight or flight response, it was a wonder that he could breathe, and his hand was still clamped on her shoulder. She had a feeling that he couldn’t move it but really wanted to if the despairing way his jolting body kept trying to twist away from her, the way the space between his brows became a pleading crease, the way the sweating seemed to increase and the way his eyes closed when it all became too much. “John!”

Abruptly he was right there. “Drink.” And in his hands was… a tiny cup of water with a sprig of some dead leaves in the centre?

But Oliver lunged at it like a man in a desert dying of thirst.

“I have questions,” she breathed as she watched him down the mixture, “but they can wait.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before Oliver thrashed, the empty cup clattering to the floor. The hand on her shoulder finally ripped off but her own hands were already clasping his forearm, there for whatever he needed; even if it was just a hand to hold.

Aggressively attempting to breathe and failing, face contorting, eyes shooting to Diggle in some sort of warning, his head wrenched back and landing hard against the metal before his mouth tore open and he screamed.

Screamed.

Not a shout or a cry or a wheeze. A scream. Agonisingly loud and… well just plain agonising to hear a voice that sent shivers down her spine regularly, rising twenty octaves in volume above the usual and ricocheting off the walls around them.

It rang in her ears for hours afterwards, the expression on his face staying with her too.

The way her whispered assurances - a weak comfort - seemed to soften the lines on his brow when she’d spoken to his closed eyes as he slept after the fact.

…The way, long after he’d stopped fighting, his hand hadn’t let go of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.... do tell. Thoughts, issues, queries?  
FEED MEEEEE REVIEWSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!  
Ahem, please?  
Also, for those of you wondering 'felicity went through torture, where's her comfort'? Sometimes it comes at odd times. SOON MY FRIENDS.


	15. Oliver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the dawn comes a few homes truths; Oliver wakes to a realisation and the acknowledgement that he has to do better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, I know. I'm sorry. I've had a lot on my plate.  
Anyway, I decided that, since I've made you wait, THIS chapter should be about Oliver's perspective. Hence the title. I was going to do it a little later but I realised it would fit better to post it now.

_You’re okay._

_You’re safe._

_No- no, I’m not going anywhere-_

_I don’t hate you. Not at all- I wouldn’t… Never._

_That’s just Dig! It’s John. He’s helping you, it’s okay… yeah, he told me I could call him Dig and um… John, he isn’t letting go._

_Please wake up. I don’t… I don’t know what to-_

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty.”

Dreams and reality intersected in a way that they never had before, and it wasn’t the first time Oliver wished there were no one to bring him back. Let him lie with his ghosts, let him be taken by his demons. Let him not be woken by John Diggle whose deep tenor clashed with her pillow soft murmurs.

The first time perhaps, that his memory beckoned him to _wake_.

Not to sleep.

To die.

Blindly searching, he allowed his head to turn towards the voice- nausea rippled through his stomach, rising like steam and acid and burning his diaphragm, his lungs, his rib cage. His head was pounding. But he was conscious.

_Fuck_. It blew out a deep exhale: relief and disappointment heavy in its wake. He’d survived the night: one day he wouldn’t.

When would that be?

“Yeah, you’re awake.” Louder now, closer. “Come on.” He almost flinched; each word joined the rhythmic pounding in his skull. “It’s _past_ time.”

Head swimming, he tried to move again, to lift his upper body-

“Whoa. Slow down.” The low-toned croon rolled through him; the solid coolness beneath his body somehow tilting sideways, vertigo pulling him with it, climbing inside his oesophagus-

He retched.

“Oh,” the quiet in Dig’s voice was belied by its dryness as Oliver’s throat released a wet croak, “that doesn’t sound good.”

With the sick and bitter swell of bile in his gullet - keeping his eyes firmly shut - he aimed for a slower, measured breath. It almost helped. “Tell me.”

A sigh. “Ten hours.” The sound of trousers shifting, air fluttering over his skin, told Oliver John was moving away from him. “You sweated out most of it and, ah…” another breath, “let’s just say, there was a _lot_ of sweating. You came down pretty hard.”

Understatement. “I’ve had hangovers before.” Oliver whispered, licking at dry lips and tasting the salt there; unwilling to raise his voice or open his eyes as his aching body worked through another urge to dry-heave. “But this…”

There was little to no sarcasm in Dig’s voice this time. “Not a walk in the park for us either.”

Us.

It took a moment… he continued to breathe, trying to place why Dig would use the word-

There was a warmth, a weight- a _softness_ resting in the palm of his hand.

His eyes snapped open, abruptly clear.

_Felicity_.

He didn’t know how he knew. Just that he did. He knew who that comfort belonged to. Hugs, hands on him, smiles, inquisitive looks and tentative caresses; he’d been given them all since his return, with various states of _you’re back_ and _we missed you_ and _are you still the same_ and _what was it like those five years_ and, finally, _it was bad but it wasn’t that bad, was it? You’re still Ollie? Good._

They asked for things he couldn’t give.

But this felt real. Unreserved, uncompromising, selfless. He could trust it, which was impossible- _should_ be impossible, because trust in himself _wasn’t_ possible. Not for someone like him. He couldn’t pay homage to a version of himself that didn’t exist. There was no trust. No such thing. Unbearable. Unimaginable.

But this felt like trust. Undeniable trust.

And like the sinner he was, he’d clung to it through the night. So, he looked; he had to, because who in their right mind would want to be holding his hand? Who would ever-

_The bridge of her nose scrunched, and he’d never seen that appear on a woman before - on any human - in such a way that made him soften at her adorability and harden at the easy sensuality. Sexy as hell. All whilst looking at _him_. Whilst naked. Whilst looking at him and sharing a shower, expecting… nothing. He didn’t understand. “I didn’t do it right?”_

_She sounded devasted. Worried that she hadn’t made an impression when that was all she ever did. _

_He. Didn’t. Understand._

_Every time. Every _single_ time she stunned him into silence. How? How did she take it all away? How did she make the world smaller yet larger? _

_How did she not know that she did?_

_“…What was that for?” It was all he could manage._

_“You looked like you needed to be kissed.” Again, he was stunned silent by her candour. “Looks like I didn’t do it right.” _

Days later, it still shuddered down his spine.

Trust.

_“Not a walk in the park for us either.”_

Eyes searching, his body moved too slow - mind too sluggish to fully grasp the problem - the surprise, the _peace_\- He didn’t deserve peace.

But there she was anyway.

Curled up in one of their uncomfortable surgical chairs - deep asleep - Felicity’s forehead lolled against her bicep; mouth open, hand hanging at an odd angle, clearly uncomfortable… yet she’d stayed.

She was holding his hand.

_“Can I pick you up at nine?”_

“I was supposed to pick her up.”

“I think you can be forgiven for not.”

It was still on him. Starring at his loose fingers, half wrapped around hers, he flexed them, and she responded subconsciously in kind. Palm to palm, the gentle shift sent a tingle down his arm. A muscle in his chest jumped. Something wild - something burning - and elusive slid _through_ him, from head to toe. Something pleasant. Completely alien. Alive.

Alive wasn’t _survive_. His father told hm to survive.

Circling back to the glasses sitting skewed on her face - on how they half rested on her outstretched arm - his eyes followed from where it strained upwards to him, until they landed back where they started; on their hands, holding each other.

Holding hands. Him. And… her. Of all people.

Real or not real?

“You got a little grabby.” It took a moment to be pulled back, to spare Diggle a glance. “I thought you might have broken her hand at one point but,” the muscles in his chest seizing, Dig’s pause almost knocked him down, “it looks like our Miss Smoak is made of stronger stuff than we give her credit for.”

He stared. _I thought you might have broken her hand at one point_. Her slim wrists and fingers cracking beneath his clumsy violence as he reached out to ghosts, as he defended himself against invisible monsters.

His own monster was selfishness enough.

“But,” John continued, unaware of the picture he’d painted, of the guilt as a different kind of sickness to the drug sitting in his chest, “at least I didn’t need to use these.” Lifting a hand, he let something metallic dangle from thumb and index finger.

Cuffs.

It was damning, the truth of him - of his violence - thrown at him from above. Fear, anger, shame; one by one they dropped like laden weights into Oliver’s stomach, leaving only a weary - knowing - resignation. _This_ was why, exactly why.

Weeks ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. It wouldn’t have seared, wouldn’t have stung at the back of his eyes, wouldn’t have pulled backwards out of his chest and through his spine.

He pushed down how her hold didn’t make him feel caged when every hug, touch and second glance from his mother, sister, from _Laurel_, had because he didn’t know what to do with that. He’d been trying to avoid her the last few days, even as he’d watched over her. Underhanded, spineless, dishonourable: unforgivable. To neglect the tentative tie that he had to her after she’d suffered at the hands of his family was a different level of sin to the filth that he’d chosen to wade through in Russia.

There was just too much. There had _been_ too much; too much to take in with a clear head: a clear head filled with the _softness_ of her.

It had been easier before, when quirky smiles, nervous fingers, insatiable curiosity and a rare compassion were all he had to contend with. Until-

_“Oliver, join me!” _

Until.

Until feeling and breathing and wondering and _seeing_\- they became, they began to _mean_, something different; something more.

So, he’d become the watchdog at her back door; something he _could_ do. He’d put on the suit _intending_ to. Staring down at the row of houses where she lived, feeling that the area was too open - too easy to gain access to her should the man he’d disarmed and taken out in the warehouse district, come back to finish the job - he’d kept an eye on her as she healed.

_I should have killed him_. Two birds with one stone; eradicate the threat, reveal to her the blood soaked into his skin. The waste of life that he was: a man too afraid to face a woman who’d done nothing but care.

Thankfully, unfortunately, no one had returned to finish the job that his mother had started.

_Jesus Christ_.

He closed his eyes.

He’d invited death and destruction into her life- tactless and arrogant and careless with his ignorance, his bow, his arrows, his mission. His anger.

His fear.

Even now, he still hadn’t sought out his mother: avoiding her too, knowing the cost. Afraid. _Weak_. Felicity deserved more and he hadn’t been able to give it to her. She deserved _everything_ he couldn’t give her, things he’d dreamed he’d been able to.

That was… something else. A whisper he kept buried, kept secret. Kept safe from himself.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t _known_ all this time, that he liked her. It was just something he’d known from the start. She’d walked into his father’s office, he’d walked into hers, and he’d liked her. Acting required perception and despite how hard he tried to fake dim-astuteness, he wasn’t blind. It had all too easy, to like her.

But he liked a lot of women in different ways.

Dreams weren’t always windows to the soul; mostly, they meant less than nothing. He wasn’t naive enough to believe that a colour or an object was anything but that. But Oliver _never_ dreamed. He had nightmares, all of them playing with memories that made him scream into the dark, that made run and hide, that made him sick, that haunted remembrance of knowing how he’d betrayed another’s feelings. Fathomless darkness where he drowned, of voices in his head promising despair, tears of the lost, ghosts crying out…

Felicity Smoak was not a nightmare.

_“You’re cute.”_

He’d kept it to himself, that light. His alone to pay tender care to where no one could see. Deep down, inside the cavity where his heart was supposed to be; a heart he’d _thought_ he’d lost to the dark, but still beat to rhythms of other people’s kindness.

He was still a man. He could still dream.

And though he hadn’t thought to see her again - hadn’t thought to survive long enough for that - he’d held off on inviting her in. It hadn’t been necessary. Until it had. She was a stranger; she was nothing to him. Except, she was.

_“I really need to learn to stop talking to myself.”_

It rooted deeper than he’d realised, than he’d _planned_. He hadn’t planned, not for her.

He thought she’d have changed. That the years would alter that light, that natural radiance.

Everyone else had; Tommy was less flamboyant, the kind of lonely that made talking to him a physical ache, more unsure when he’d never been before and seemed to be unable to admit to wanting things he’d never thought he’d want. Laurel, she’d… _she’s hardened_; a shell of sandstone and glass, too open to the elements to withstand too much more before she cracked. He was to blame for that, he was to blame for all of it.

His sister’s standoffishness, her rebellion, her guard.

His mother’s-

Ruthlessness?

_No. _Had that always been there? Children didn’t know everything about their parents; if his father had the list, why hadn’t it occurred to Oliver that his mother might know all about it too? Why hadn’t he asked her? Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why had he always felt that he couldn’t?

_I’m missing something._

But Felicity hadn’t been. He’d walked into her office to find her exactly, undeniably, the same person who’d moved to the rhythms of her own words. Proof that maybe her life hadn’t walked all over her, or hadn’t _let_ it and it had hit in the moment between her second spiel and his pathetic lie that he’d worried about that; about the world’s harshness killing the reality of her. Between fighting and dying, he’d hoped that hadn’t happened.

He’d _hoped_.

He’d left her office feeling the smile he wouldn’t wear on his face, in his toes. It would have been all too easy to become entrapped.

Case in point; he’d kept going back. He hadn’t tried not to, and when opportunity rose, when he’d needed her help absolutely, the relief at having no choice _but_ to, was beyond his scope of understanding.

Employing a gentler to bringing her into the fold, had been all too natural. No mask, no hood, just the truth. He’d lied, badly; but each lie had brought exposure. They hadn’t hidden the truth; they’d unmasked him. He’d felt _honest_. Being seen through her eyes made him… aware. A veil that he hadn’t known was there, lifting. It had been his perfect secret, one without dirt jammed into rusty cracks of history. He’d held no expectations, knowing instinctively that she’d be able to solve his every issue, answer every question, enjoy his smile as it came so easily to his face.

She’d made it _easy_.

John Diggle had been unforeseen, but he’d intended for Felicity Smoak, despite how his plans fell to her feet with every word she spoke. It had surprised him, but not in the way it should have. He’d taken it to mean that… maybe they were meant to work together. Could it even be whimsey when he’d planned, when he’d hoped?

His hope had led her to being shot by his mother.

“No,” a huff of air - coated in the kind of self-revulsion that takes years to cultivate - and a shake of his head almost hid the words he managed to rasp, “I just grabbed her hand tight enough that she couldn’t get away from me.” The words almost made him curl over. It sounded horrific, even to his own spoiled ears. It was symbolic; had it ever truly been her choice to help him? To say yes, every time when he’d manipulated-

_“I’m not an idiot.”_

_“I never thought you were.”_

_“Good. Then do me the courtesy of not fabricating whatever story pops into your head, first.”_

Focusing on the darkness in his peripheral, he exhaled softly. She’d seen through everything.

Then John’s grunt made him grudgingly glance at him. “I wouldn’t say it happened quite like that.” Closing the distance between them now - a glass of water in one hand and a container of bad coffee in the other - John took him in, eyes revealing just how worried he’d been, how weary he was, and a dull pang of guilt added to the cauldron of feeling he choked down on a daily basis. “You lost it for a moment, she was closest.”

The haggard look on Oliver’s face asked John how that was supposed to change how he felt.

Passing him the glass, Diggle inhaled coffee like the true military man he’d once been. “She was also talking to you the entire time and it seemed to…” sharp eyes saw the shield in Oliver’s as they searched for the right words. “You responded to her voice.” He simply said, though it made something in Oliver’s battered chest, jump- made him want to hide. “It wasn’t like you were hurting her.”

“That’s so far from the point Diggle.”

“Is it?” Gesturing to said IT Girl, something in John’s spine seemed to settle. As if touching upon a subject he understood all too well helped loosen the knots in his back. “I said before that she’s stronger than we- than _I_ gave her credit for.” The admission made the blank expression on Oliver’s face break, but it wasn’t the assumption that John hadn’t wanted her in this with them that made him silently respond; it was the acknowledgement that Oliver - unable and unwilling to see past the obstacles and risks involved in inviting his loved ones into his life - with all his protestations, hadn’t once considered Felicity to be a liability. John had. “I thought bringing in a civilian would be the end of this brief, _noble_,” Dig half-teased, “semi-successful, cloudy as hell, venture. I still think that she shouldn’t be here.” He confessed, watching Oliver’s brow fall; watching the shield rise back up. Watching him disagree. “But I think that we need her. I think you need her.”

“I don’t need anyone.”

“And I think you’ve gotten too used to running on automatic with that answer.”

They were both keeping quiet, silently agreeing not to wake Felicity before it was necessary, but it gave the moment a gravitas that Oliver wasn’t sure he could handle just then; not with the feel of her hand, relaxed as it was, in his own. Knowing that he couldn’t walk away…

He couldn’t walk away.

It hadn’t occurred to him before, not truly, that it was a weakness. That leaving every emotionally suggestive or laden moment, _hurt_ the people he cared about beyond the scope of his intention. He’d worked under the premise that since they’d lived without him for five years, they’d be more than capable of handling his exists and entrances. He’d wanted to cultivate their care in such a way that, if anything were to happen to him, they’d be more than capable of moving on.

Maybe… he’d been wrong.

For the first time in years, it occurred to him to care about the fact that it was the only thing he knew how to do correctly: run. Physically, emotionally, symbolically. For the _first_ time, with her hand in his, he had a reason - that didn’t feel like chains - to _not_. Even if the reason felt like an excuse to stay, especially after he fought so hard to leave after she’d woken that night. In every moment since, avoiding her gaze.

But it didn’t mean that he could need anyone.

His resolve must have echoed on his face because John sighed. “You don’t realise how much you mean to people yet-”

“We’ve had this conversation. I know that I have something to lose if-”

“-Or how much you mean to _her_.”

There was a pause. “She shouldn’t care.” Oliver whispered, unconsciously holding fast to the weight in his hand. “I’ve known her for weeks and all I’ve done is ask her for help and put her in danger.”

“Felicity put _herself_ in danger. Walter Steele did too. She seemed more than happy to, honestly.” He added with an air of grudging reproach and not a bit of mild confusion. “You also invited her to your Christmas party.”

“…A mistake.”

“Was it? What about when she visited you in hospital, did you talk about favours then?”

A flat stare accompanied his words. “No, we talked what we both do at Christmas.”

A huff, a smile hidden behind a hand made Oliver’s hackles rise. “Of course, you did. What about when you visited her, at her house? You know, to check up on her. Or when you invited her out to lunch with us and we spent an hour… Oliver, we nothing but laugh.”

It was true. Painful and true. Still, his eyes side-lined and squinted at him. “Are you deliberately keeping check of everything I do?” So that, when opportunity strikes, they can be used against him.

“I’m your bodyguard. I’m supposed to.”

“No,” deadpan, Oliver pointed finished, “you’re not.”

“Just as you’re not supposed to lunch dates with your IT girl.”

“Why?” he found himself asking because- _wine_. They’d talked about wine before his mother, getting shot, before-

The shower.

Part of him needed to know why he couldn’t, the weak part.

“You said it yourself.” Diggle reminded him, head cocked and thoughts probably not processing slower than he’d like thanks to Vertigo poisoning. “You can’t endanger the people you care about.”

And he had.

“Look,” he heard Dig’s voice, but it came through a filter, “I’m not saying this to make you feel worse than you already do. I’m reminding you that you made a choice, and not she’s in. 100% in. Something tells me Felicity Smoak isn’t the type to dip her toes in when she can dive down.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying_… maybe there’s no going back now. You brought her in, she knows your secret. Backing off, in _any_ way…” Shaking his head, John looked at him the way he’d secretly hoped and feared that Tommy would when he’d returned: knowingly. “Man, that’s a path leading nowhere fast.”

“You’re telling me to just continue as I have been with her.” The words came out quietly hostile and as think as he’d expected.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

But he couldn’t accept that. “My mother _shot_ her.”

“She was pushing you out of the way, Oliver.”

He heard the hidden message, that his mother had been aiming for him, for the Hood, but- “Is that supposed to make it better?” He rounded on him, hushed and sore as he was because how was he supposed to reconcile with that? He wasn’t someone to be saved, to be chosen to live whilst another died. For Felicity Smoak to be sacrificed to a bullet that his mother had had the presence of mind to shoot from a gun he hadn’t known she’d carried. He hadn’t known a lot of things. “It just reminds me that I…”

“That you what, Oliver?”

That he didn’t deserve- “I shouldn’t have brought her in.”

“It was her choice.”

It made no sense to him. “Was it?”

He could tell himself all he wanted that his lies had revealed the truth, that she’d see through him so it made everything okay.

Preparation, cunning, astuteness in the craft of manipulating a person so readily, so easily… because he hadn’t simply been gentle; he’d _flirted_. He’d teased and tempted and coaxed Felicity Smoak towards him. That it hadn’t taken more than an ounce of pressure simply told him that she was a very bright, very bored, very _alone_ woman, looking for a reason. A purpose. He’d taken advantage of that. And she’d let him because the truly intelligent are often curious.

Because there was something special inside her that was calling out to be needed, to have purpose.

Because she liked him.

“Was it her choice for my stepfather to use her? _I_ used her. Use her.” Shaking his head, shame and - as always - a strange, gluttonous sort of pleasure merged; she’d been well aware of his ploy and had _still_\- “People take advantage of the kindness of others.” He continued, refusing to let himself be soothed by knowing what he knew, before seductively hopeful words could flow out of John’s mouth like water in a stream. “I’m one of those people.”

“You’re forgetting that she’s so much smarter than you, right?” Setting down his coffee on the table Oliver had lain across, John folded his arms. “Do you really think she’d let herself be used?”

_No_. “I think she’d do a great deal for the people she cares about.”

The truth, the reality of what that could mean - that someone like her could compromise herself because of him - scared him in a way that the eyes of madmen and the scorn, the deep disappointment of his loved ones, never had.

He needed her safe.

But he also needed her.

“Oliver, did you really go to her that first time to use her?” _Yes_. “I mean, is that what you’ve been doing because, from where I’m standing? It looked an awful lot like recruitment. Like a choice.” He paused before adding. “And mutual respect.”

“If you want to pretty it up, that’s fine; but we both know that I have showed her little to nothing to respect about me.”

“I think it takes someone very special to see through the bullshit you pile on daily, and I think you knew that too. You _know_ that.” A shrewd smile marked against the knowing in Dig’s face, unseeing - unfeeling - of the heated cognizance of being caught that Oliver experienced ripple down each rib in his rib cage. “Come on. You were _testing_ her. You were looking for a reason.”

Oliver exhaled. “A reason?” The urge to leave was building.

“To push her away. To keep her here. To tell her all your secrets because even you need someone to confess to.” He jutted his chin at him, giving him the choice. “You tell me.”

He was so far off the mark that Oliver couldn’t be bothered correcting him.

There was no denying that he’d deliberately fed Felicity badly thought out lies, that he’d sought her out for her technical expertise. That he’d _intended_ on lying in that first meeting; that he’d promised himself to appear as vaporous and vain and arrogant and as utterly self-absorbed as his 22-year-old had been.

Except, he’d walked into her office and he’d blanked. Every practiced word, every tease, every flirtation, the act of being Oliver Queen - the plan - it had left him. He’d seen her, talked to her, and none of it had come out.

The indescribable happening of seeing and being seen. It could rip off masks and shatter facades.

From the first word, she’d had the control. And he hadn’t thought about her being a liability, hadn’t felt that it would be perilous for her to know about him; hadn’t considered how odd it was that he’d instantly trusted her not to go to the cops. He hadn’t even _tried_ to see her as a-

As a target. Or a threat. Or a danger. Or a variable in the room. An obstacle. Like everyone else.

_He’d_ had no choice in the matter, no control over what came out of his mouth in place of the premeditated fib, or how every smile hadn’t felt like a deception. It hadn’t been up to him.

Yet, it had.

Deceit, violence, cunning; these came naturally to him. The him that had opened his mouth, that had blundered - charmless and lacking in finesse - and had hoped his way through his first meeting with Felicity Smoak, had been a stranger. An honest man, lacking in morality and every virtue he’d taken for granted, who couldn’t lie to a very smart woman.

John had it wrong. There was no goal line, no test, no grand plan. He just… hoped. He didn’t deserve to, but it was out of his hands. He saw her, heard her and he hoped.

And then he’d simply wanted her there. She fit. She brought a mentality to the table that was soothing. And intelligence that smoothened the creases between him and John.

It was still dangerous.

_“So _ _modest_ _.” It touched him somewhere in his stomach, made him bow his head for her to not see the affect it had on him, and yet hoping she’d see it all. For someone to know that he wasn’t the vapid rich boy they all thought he’d continued to be. “You’re trying. I think that’s admirable.”_

_“Merry Christmas Oliver.”_

_“It’s been, what? Twelve weeks? You haven’t had a lot of time to see how you’ve changed. Maybe you don’t want to. Which means you’re doing this to try to give your family a little piece of what you feel you took away from them.” _

_“And you press your lips together a lot. Sort of like you’re trying not to say something. _ _Or_ _ you’re keeping a really big secret.”_

_“Maybe you didn’t see the signs, but they also didn’t share with you that there was a problem, because how are you expected to know them and what they’re feeling inside when they can’t reciprocate?”_

_“Then do me the courtesy of not fabricating whatever story pops into your head, first. You don’t need to. Just ask.” _

_“I imagined you saying that under different circumstances.”_

_“It’s so silly that you’d think I’d be afraid of you.” The press and slide of her hands, her warmth, as they moved in tandem down his torso, how her eyes followed, unseeing of the way he followed them; breathless and terrified and in awe of how she seemed to appreciate every inch with little salacious intent. As if he were worthy of worship. “Like you’re some sort of monster.” Before her hands swooped around his waist, dragging electricity up his spine, almost obliterating the control in his own hands to remain steadfast-_

His eyes closed.

Control.

He’d never thought that far ahead, to the unthinkable. But… he’d dreamed. What it could be like, what _he_ could be like, what she _is_. But-

_Dreams are for the living. _

People hide sides of themselves, they change when those masks are lifted, but it hadn’t surprised him to find that, even naked and vulnerable and on pain medication, Felicity had been just as feeling, just as perceptive, as caring and as honest as she always was. It had felt real.

Except, it also _hadn’t_ been her. She’d taken the strip; three tablets. One was enough for a woman her size, two at a pinch. _Careless_. His mistake. But, because of that… it hadn’t been her. It hadn’t been real. It had been a dream.

And dreams weren’t meant for men like him. “It doesn’t matter. It _doesn’t_.”

“Why doesn’t it?”

“I have a plan-”

“Ah, but that’s not how it works Oliver. People aren’t quantifiable. Sometimes life doesn’t go to plan.” Shifting up from his lean, brown eyes glanced to the side. “And I think our girl is finally waking up.”

_Yeah. _Already focused on the hand in his, on the fingers already moving against him, Oliver watched her come to life. His stomach tautened, waiting to feel her eyes on him again. It wasn’t something he understood, _feeling_ another person’s eyes on him.

_“You came for me.” _

But that’s when it had happened. And every moment since. He’d felt her stare. She stared a lot.

He’d encouraged it.

So now he braced for the impact of her voice, her words, her need to make his world just a bit kinder. His feet itched to move, to walk away, because sometimes time slowed when you wanted something, stretching the skin raw.

It was a feeling he’d had every time she’d spoken to him, that he _could_ have what might be waiting on the other side of that ‘door’. The one behind her eyes and underneath her smile. Her body had been unmitigatedly honest that night if nothing else. But monsters were always tempted by the light, by goodness, by what they didn’t have. He couldn’t do that to her.

_It’s difficult_, he thought as he watched her stretch; a startlingly sinuous display, despite how cramped she looked in the chair or how she winced when the muscles in her neck pulled. The curve of her thigh in those jeans, the twist of her stomach as one arm stretched over her head, the tantalising way gravity dragged her loose hair down off one shoulder revealing a neck he’d watched water appreciate the same way his fingers had wondered about.

It was all too easy to picture her doing that naked.

His eyes closed again, throat flexing.

No, he didn’t deserve it, how imperfectly perfect it had been. _They’d_ been.

Sighing through his nostrils, he shifted in place; oddly aware that he was topless and weary and waiting. Something fluttered as his navel and he blinked at it.

Then her eyes fluttered open, her expression blowing wide open with drowsy honesty when they landed on him. He was awake, standing, and she was _relieved_. It pooled there in her gaze, in the way her mouth opened - the _oh, thank God_ \- in the quick flutter of her lashes and the way her lips trembled as she smiled, in the way she all but scrambled to stand herself.

In the way she expected nothing in return for her time taken, save an honest response.

Everything in him wanted to give her something he didn’t understand how to give. He felt like a child, all fingers and thumbs and inexperience. His blundering had hurt her.

_Shut it down_.

“Oliver.” Sometimes it was that simple. Saying his name, it spoke aloud that she was content to simply see him stood up straight. “How do you feel?”

_Out of my depth_. “Better.” He grunted, like the uncouth, worthless man that he felt he was.

Then she straightened and all thought fled him. “Better than hallucinating?” It was weak, her joke - her voice - as her hand lifted to his chin before dropping and possibly thinking the better of whatever she was about to do, but he couldn’t regret it.

Couldn’t free up space to appreciate that her hands had already touched him, to enjoy the way her jeans clung in all the right places, couldn’t feel like shit for the way she’d stayed with him, despite the fact that he’d yet to give her the justice she deserved with his mother and with himself.

He was too busy staring at the way her hair sprung out on one side of her head. How pieces of it clung to her glasses before frizzing out into a _puff_ between her ear and the clip that was barely holding the rest of it together. As if more than one hand had combed through the strands only to grasp onto several pieces and not let go.

His brain could have gone anywhere with that. It went to one place.

Lightly clearing whatever it was in his throat that people clear when they know their thoughts up to know good and that they’re about to step into territory they could avoid but don’t want to despite awkwardness, Oliver’s eyes flitted uncertainly between her glasses, eyes and hair. “You’re, ah…”

He was such a guy. Knew it. Couldn’t do anything about it.

She looked like she’d had a _very_ good time last night.

But he didn’t need to elaborate; she read him like a book.

“Uh oh.” This time her hand lifted to the side of her head, immediately feeling the problem and he watched the charmingly comical misery rise in her face, making her nose scrunch and her eyes close. “_Great_.”

“It’s… it’s not bad.” He tried, finding it surreal that instead of Vertigo and bullets and secrets, this was what they were talking about of all the things; that they always seemed to find a way towards… Teasing.

Banter.

Her eyes slit open to send him a withering sort of look.

A surge of something rare made him press his lips together to keep from grinning, very aware of how she hadn’t realised that her hand was still grasping his.

He didn’t want her to leave_. _

_I’m a selfish asshole._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter puts an end to episode 12 (?) Vertigo leading to one of the scenes I started writing this fanfic for so, here's hoping I get it finished soon!  
As always, I FEED ON REVIEWS. I have a few that i need to respond to and will get round to doing just that ASAP.


	16. Wonders Never Cease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver says thank you, I'm sorry and I promise.  
In that order.  
Diggle watches.  
Felicity? Well, Felicity's more than a bit thrown by the difference a single day can make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There aren't enough sorry's to cover my absence. Let's keep it short and simply admit that this year has been very hard for me, as I'm sure it has been for everyone. So, here's a longer than usual chapter for sticking with this one guys. You're awesome. I've read all your reviews and I'm so fucking grateful to you all.

“…it was beyond overstepping, I know- I _knew_ that. I’m sorry, I just-”

“_Felicity_.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said her name like that - like a bright red stop sign - in the last thirty seconds. “I can’t-”

He was still feeling the effects of Vertigo poisoning, so any chance at him following her habitual, incessant streams of babble and noise were probably limited.

“Right.” Eyes closing, bracing, waiting for the punch; upper body almost rocking forwards to that pendulum swing of foot-in-mouth disease and onwards to the jack-knife insult she’d gotten used to being on the receiving end of. “Sorry. Babbling. Again.”

“No.” And really, did Oliver’s voice have to be that insufferably husky and hushed and _hot_\- “Just… just breathe.”

Because she hadn’t been.

_Now, why didn’t I think of that?_ Immediately, she sucked in a breath; lips pressing shut as she did - as if keeping in oxygen - eyebrows rising with the long inhale into her nostrils, looking to him as she did-

_Why?_

Not that it puzzled him or anything, for her to take his cue; he was doing it _with_ her- _breathing with me, not doing it, _doing_ it. Not… that._ And he deliberately exaggerated his breathing to match hers, with those tired yet penetrating eyes dead set on her own; silently telling her to ‘repeat after me’, and the rise and fall of his chest would have been _oh_ so very distracting… if not for the fact that he’d put on a jumper. _Bummer_.

Still, she’d had a full-on view of those pectorals, abdominals, biceps, and triceps all laid out before her welcoming eyes and, well, she _should_ have had her fill, and yet- _it’s like crack_. An addiction where a cure was so very unnecessary.

But he’d gotten the chills about five minutes after she’d woken- _they’re multiplying. And I’m looooosing control-_

“Okay.” And it was quiet, more like a strand of hair slowly brushing over skin than voice and breath. “Better?”

It took her a moment to blink back into the surreal reality of him standing there like that after the night before. Arms folded over his chest, shoulders slightly hunched over - _still a sick boy_ \- face a little pallid, eyes waiting for her to tell him that she was alright.

_Better_, he’d asked her.

As if it hadn’t been him dosed up on a killer drug: sweating, screaming, and thrashing it out for hours. As if she were the one who looked wrecked, who’d been speaking in soft yet coarse sentences, as if the slightest sound was painful to the ear.

_I’m sure my gibbering like that two minutes straight was a huge-_

“Felicity?”

Shakily, she exhaled, and it took an unusual amount of effort to look him in the eye again because… Since she’d woken, since he’d put on a shirt, she’d felt it. A change. He was still distant, still keeping a solid two meters of physical distance and a ten-meter mental gap between them. A _physical_ distance.

But he kept _looking_ at her.

“Yes.” She whispered, swallowing… it was the reason why she was so distracted. Fear of this step into his family’s private affairs and surprise at-

“Are you ok?”

-That.

There wasn’t even concern on his face. It wasn’t disquiet that caused that gentle crease on his brow, despite his otherwise blank expression. It wasn’t bewilderment or confusion that made him stare, unblinkingly at her. It wasn’t worry for her that made his eyes look like pools of liquid Aqua and black. It was something else.

_“Don’t… don’t hate me.” _

_The breathless words hissed out from between clenched teeth, his hand tight around her wrist, his eyes mere slits of violet and white._

_“I don’t hate you.” That it was honest made it automatic; anything to take some of the weight off the sheer despair and anger and emotional rot affixed to him. “Not at all- I wouldn’t…” She shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “Never.”_

Still lost for words, she nodded at him; trying to smile as she did. Hands clutching at each other in front of her chest where she stood in front of him, feeling at odds with herself. Rooted to the spot, wondering.

And _he_ simply continued to watch her. Revealing nothing. Still waiting for _something_. “You went to Detective Lance,” he recapped her nervous stream of words, pausing until she nodded again, “and you brought him a proposal?”

“Of community service within the homeless sector.” She licked her lips because- _what if he hates this?_ His little sister spending so many hours with the city’s forgotten. “It was commissioned by Carter’s- Leny Carter.” She amended, watching him stare at her. “It’s one of the homeless shelters I volunteer at.” The one she favoured. Nudging her glasses that had gotten stuck mid-way down her nose, she circled round to the hair she knew was still sticking out behind her ear and futilely tried to shove it back down. “Leny, the owner, he thought it was a good idea,” a gamble, “and signed off on it.”

For a long moment, he just looked at her some more in that unfathomable way of his before speaking. “After you asked him.”

Murmured words in the dark had never felt so entrapping.

“Y-yeah.” It felt _incriminating_, a blush rising to her throat to emphasise the point and it took her an added moment to realise she was still fidgeting; fingers prodding at the long sleeves of her blouse. She couldn’t help it. He was making her nervous. “W-well, the point _is_,” she immediately rambled on, feeling like a livewire and unaccountably tentative under his roving eyes, “Detective Lance was able to get the Judge to sign off on it.” _Smile_, smile for the camera. “Thea doesn’t have to go to trial!” Wincing, grimacing at herself, she shut up.

She sounded like a cheerleader.

“Detective Lance,” and yep, _he_ sounded dumbstruck, doubtful and unmoved, “got the judge,” and he was speaking so slowly with that still _I screamed through the night_ hoarseness, “to back off his stance?”

A nod. “Yes.”

“Willingly?”

_Ah_… The feud. Quentin Lance’s hatred. Oliver’s history with the man’s daughters. Judge Brackett’s resolve. Those things don’t just go away because an IT girl got a thought in her head and couldn’t, wouldn’t let it go.

Her smile, though small, felt real this time; even as she waited for him to be angry at her for intruding. This was who she was, only nobody but him – and now John Diggle – had seen it live. Either she would be accepted, or she wouldn’t.

“…Yes.”

Details would come later, because he rocketed back - breath halted in what would be a sore chest - the heels of his feet pressing into the floor, arms unfolding to balance his weakened body against the table behind him…

Silent. Looking at her. Never. Looking. Elsewhere.

This was very different. _Was he always this quiet?_ Or had she shocked him with her, once again, unfailing ability to get herself wrapped up his family’s business? Seeds were sown, he’d asked her to join the team, had told her he’d wanted her help. Reap what you sow; don’t sweat the not-so small stuff.

Except, her conscience demanded more and the unreadable expression on Oliver’s face was making her anxious.

“I am _miles_ over the line, aren’t I?” _The line is a dot to me_. Lips pressing together, nodding rapidly at herself, several paces away from where she’d woken to an Oliver Queen statue, hovering by her side. A dream it might have been if not for the grasp she’d had on his hand.

The moment she’d released him, he’d stepped away. For a shirt, sure, but explain that to the ache in her chest. Like she’d tethered him there and he’d been too polite to tell her to let go.

“It- it doesn’t mean anything if Thea doesn’t agree to the terms. She doesn’t have to…” She trailed off, unsure of what to really say or why she was simply watching the stream of emotions and thoughts and idiosyncrasies play across Oliver’s eyes far too swiftly to make heads or tails of them.

Then, finally, he exhaled. It wasn’t a smooth stream of air either, it shook and wavered and his shoulders followed suit. _He’s still recovering_, but it only added to the way his eyes searched hers; soft and-

Friendly. _Huh_. It was like… like he was seeing something up close in her, _on_ her, that no one else could see. That he hadn’t seen.

And he liked it.

“Why did you do this?” Mellow coarseness - a contradictory mix that did _not_ help the warmth seeping into her skin, the nerves sizzling in her stomach - suffused his voice as his head moved just enough to evoke confusion. She couldn’t blame him, but there was something else. Something absurdly close to tenderness. “You’re still recovering.” He continued. “I still haven’t-”

_Confronted to your mother?_ She finished in her head, but there was a time and a place and this was neither. “You’ve been really worried the last few days and-”

“You helped Thea because I’ve been worried?”

They were barely words; hushed whispers had more voice, but it was still very easy to _hear_ the way he saw right through her.

That she did it because she just… she wanted to help him. Just that.

And he hadn’t really understood it until then.

Frowning because, no other human being she’d met had managed to so completely miss the point, and yet, also have a good reason to do so, she took a step closer; smile wobbling, voice betraying her nerves. “We- we’re friends.” And maybe her voice cracked on friends - hopeful and a little careless with it - maybe her eyes dashed to the side and back; once again trepidatory and hesitant. “_Aren’t_ we friends?”

Because sometimes it’s just that simple. _And sometimes you sound just as pitiful as me_.

His body fought his reaction, but there was no denying the way every inch of him seemed to loosen, the way he breathed in deeply and out slowly. The way he seemed to be utterly nonplussed by her.

It was so strange… she thought she knew enough. Enough about _him_. Enough to know how he’d react, how he’d be. She wasn’t conceited enough to think she knew him to a degree that she could read the thoughts flying across his face or the one that remained there indefinitely. She just… she’d considered them friends. Or at least, _growing_ to be. Or something. Equals in that way.

It hadn’t occurred to her that, like with other people, he might have been acting. As in, constantly so; green hood notwithstanding.

But the way his countenance screamed ‘unprepared’ for once revealed just how young he really was. The way her question tore down the guard behind his eyes, in his voice, gave her the oddest feeling of relief. “We’re friends.” Touched and stunned and grateful…

_Torn_. That was it. He sounded torn.

“Felicity.”

Strained, that was another word.

She wasn’t a fool. She had no idea what he’d been through to make _her_ words so spectacular, but she’d seen the scars. She’d touched them, accidentally _and_ on purpose- _I’m only human_. The point? Oliver was still refamiliarizing with social mores. With care and compassion. What it takes to _remain_ human.

He had no idea what that word really meant. Friend. But it was as if he was getting a clue. “You did this for me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I was just-” _Do not blush, do not- god I’m blushing_; she could _feel_ it raise near-welts on her skin and it was so not the time to be behaving like a teenager, because she was so fracking easy to see through. “You looked desperate.” Worried and unhappy outside of the police station the day before, yes, but her own words made her cringe. She watched him a lot and maybe he didn’t want to be seen. “I… With the multitude of things that you have to handle,” added to by herself and though she knew it wasn’t her fault - knew he knew that too - it still made her feel uncomfortably aware of the weight Oliver was carrying on his shoulders, “I just wanted to make _one_ thing easier for you. And trust me,” she found herself awkwardly adding when the silence grew a little too long after her pause, “Leny could use the help. I mean _if_ your sister agrees to the proposal-”

“She’ll agree.” _Whoa. _It was a different kind of quiet to before, this hushed, peculiar mix of shyness and resolve. “I’ll talk to her. I… I didn’t expect-” The way he licked his lips, and ducked his head almost self-consciously, made _her_ stare. “I’m grateful.”

_Boing_ goes the heart-

“I-it was nothing.” Palms flattening together, she backtracked at the tiny frown that appeared on his brow. “I mean, it wasn’t _nothing_, nothing. It was definitely something. Not a something you need to worry about so much as…”

Her eyes had closed, so she hadn’t seen him move, and the lightest press of paradoxically pillow soft lips against her cheek - carrying with it the slightest trace of sweat, leather and something very _Oliver_ \- had the thump in her chest skipping a beat, shutting her up completely. Mental traffic and all.

It could have been milliseconds later or a moment of minutes before she felt the slightest warmth against the tip of her ear.

“…Thank you.” Throaty, unforgettable; the vibration of it - of his stupid-perfect-maleness - reverberating down into the pores of her skin, the roots of her hair, until it nestled in her bones, making her shudder. Pulling at her heart.

It was good, really, that he left her stood there to find the rest of his clothes because she didn’t think she’d be capable of human speech again before coffee.

“Not bad.” Arms folding as he walked into view, Diggle - head tilted, eyes gauging her warm-cheeked self and _smiling _\- worked up to his next friendly challenge. “Now let’s see if you can get him to say, ‘I’m sorry’, then I’ll be _really_ impressed.”

* * *

Hours later, the light from that perfect moment had all but poofed out of existence, because there was a word for Thea Queen that made it so. A word that held the power, the aim, to keep brothers from meddling and friends from caring. After spending less than five minutes in her company, the word was becoming clearer by the second. _She’s such a- what’s that word? Such a_-

“…brat.” She breathed, her expression pinching slightly as she took the adolescent stereotype of the ‘Rich Princess’ playing the part in front of her, right down to the letter.

As one, both said teenager on the sofa opposite and her obscenely attractive brother - sat directly to Felicity’s left - turned to blink at her. _Just when I was beginning to think they had nothing in common._

Now they could both stare at the social freak on the sofa in unison.

Well, seeing the absolute shock on Oliver’s face when she’d turned up at the Queen mansion, even with his mother visiting Queen Consolidated or wherever retired CEO’s go when they’re _this_ rich and _that_ powerful - successful and a clear figurehead in an ongoing crisis, the woman had clearly mastered the art of smiling with one face and barring her fangs with another - was almost worth the faux pas.

Almost.

She’d never admit that it had taken her almost thirty minutes to put her car in gear.

After she’d left the Foundry to return home, shower and contemplate her choices in life- it _might_ have involved a half glass of wine as she’d lain on the floor in her living room, feeling the soreness of sleeping in a metal chair for three hours and knowing that no amount of yoga and sugary cereal was going to cut it. Mind so full of Oliver - of needles and that wounded, frantic look in his eyes that produced feelings threatening to render her sleepless for the next ten days - she’d spent most of the half hour repeating a mantra: _I can handle his mother who wants me dead because I am a badass bitch with wifi._

And believed not a word.

This wasn’t college: she wasn’t a naive hacktivist and her family consisted of one person who lived too many miles to the south to be a present figure in her life. The shortcoming of finally allowing herself to commit to feelings, to comradeship, to trust - to be a friend instead of an acquaintance - was that she always cared more about the other guy. Oliver’s mother had kidnapped her. She’d pointed a gun at them. She’d paid a man to cause her pain. Moira Queen had unknowingly shown the darker side of herself to her own son, she’d almost killed her.

Felicity was indisputable evidence.

But there’d be no breaking the law to bring to light Mrs Queen’s nefarious ruthlessness, at least… not overtly. That and, her idea of defence would have been to flee the city with a hefty ‘try to find me and I send this evidence to the FBI’ amount of blackmail left on the desk of the Queen matriarch. 

She wanted to talk about it, but after last night… _give it more time_. Honestly, she needed time herself. All she knew was how to run from a situation that she had no answers to. It was almost a relief to not confront what had happened. That and- _I’m really tired._

So, after a full tank of coffee had made it possible for her to make it back down to her car and consider committing potential suicide by way of Moira Queen, she’d sat there, staring into space. Fear is the mind killer, true, but she wasn’t sure this time. _Was_ she afraid of Oliver’s mother?

_That’s… not it._

She wouldn’t be the one to make Oliver decide how to do with what needed to be done. She didn’t have the right; any one action could lead to the reveal of his secret, a secret she hadn’t finished processing, a secret not hers to tell.

Felicity looked at Oliver Queen and saw Oliver. Sure, he wore a hood and carried a bow, but he was still _Oliver_. Some names came with price tags; he’d discarded Queen a long time ago and she wasn’t naive enough to think that his family could see that or appreciate why he’d needed to or why he might be different now.

_It can’t be me_. She wouldn’t decide for him.

Until then, she’d push aside whatever feelings she continued to paint over for the powerful woman who was currently making her ‘public rounds’. Aka, damage control. _Deviant daughters and their wayward brothers_. Mrs Queen would likely be smoothing financial partnerships and smooshing political allies and Felicity wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

And Oliver? He’d just seemed- _he’d turned into a statue, okay. _He’d opened the door, seen her standing there - his eyes had been comically wide - and had turned to stone; he was good at that.

Coming back to the awkward present, she cleared her throat. “Tourette’s.” Helpless to the pull of him being sat _right_ there, she caught the _squint_ on Oliver’s face - she knew she was almost a literal full boob, instead of half of one; she didn’t need it silently screamed at her - and shifted in such a way to make it seem as though she was shuffling forwards, towards Thea instead of, well, fidgeting. “You’re not a-no.” _Lie_. “Rewind.” She cleared her throat, voice a _little_ higher than before. “I’ll start again.”

“Please,” and if the flogged-body-being-dragged-over-stones tone wasn’t enough of a hint, the derision in Miss Queen’s expression told Felicity everything she needed to know, “_don’t_ hurt yourself.”

There wasn’t a chance in hell that she’d go for this.

“_Thea_.” Bristling - you could almost see the rustled tail feathers sprout on Oliver’s back - blue eyes shoving back at haze, but his words were aimed at Felicity. “She’s listening.”

Blowing out the mother of all sighs - _such_ a hardship that her brother loved her enough to go so far to keep her out of jail, it really must be - Thea slumped in her seat like a prime candidate for the lackadaisical teenage stereotype; bored and unimpressed with everyone and everything, including the stranger who she couldn’t put a face to a… well, a _face_ she didn’t remember having insulted during one Christmas party that she clearly hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place. _If I had a nickel_.

The difference between the siblings’ focus was making her skin itch: one penetrating, the other, utter disinterest. _I give you the cast of ‘mean girls’ with a dash of ‘he’s out of your league’._

“Detective Lance,” she started, because if she didn’t, she might qualify for the ‘mindless staring at terminally unavailable men and their self-absorbed, forgivably defensive sisters’ competition of 2012, “persuaded the judge to agree to 500 hours community service and a year’s probation in place of a trial and prison sentence, which…” she shrugged a shoulder, floundering a little with how to explain how _good_ of a deal this was instead of the so-called prison sentence most teenagers would describe this to be, “I mean, it’s pretty generous.”

From a judge determined to make his mark, that is. She’d seen lesser punishments delivered for worse crimes.

And yet, derisive could be the only word to describe the way the Queen-teen’s expression slanted -suspicious from the get-go - complete with sceptical squinting of the eyes. “You think so?”

And it was one of those times Felicity wished people would stop asking her questions, rhetorical - acerbic - or otherwise, because-

“Well, it sure beats a sentence of manslaughter.”

She would answer.

_Frack_.

“Felicity.” It was more the whispered use of her name that tugged on her gut than the way his tone asked her what the _hell_ she thought she was saying. Pronouncing each syllable - as if her name truly were a sum of its parts - with a different meaning lacing each, and yet still _looked_ at her like that, even when he was startled. Annoyed. Or incredulous.

Curious, bemused, certain.

Nervous, she peeked at him as she fixed her glasses properly on her nose. She had absolutely no idea what she was doing, not really; but _he_ wasn’t helping.

He was drawing straws. Maybe everything he’d said so far to his sister, since his return, had been misconstrued and thrown back at him. Maybe he was hoping someone else might get through to-

“So,” and it made Felicity start, the voice of the Queen teen as she watched those hazel eyes move almost indifferently over her before drawing to her brother, “how does,” cue finger flick from himself to Felicity and back again, “_this_ work?”

_What?_

He looked equally as baffled. “How does _what_ work?”

“You two.” _Oh_. That was the problem. _Yay_. _It starts_. “You know each other?” Complete with second finger flick. Eye flick, finger flick, would toe flick come next? “No offense, but,” _ah, the caveat’s_; just when she didn’t think her stomach could clench any further, “my brother doesn’t exactly make a habit of inviting his hang-ons home.”

It hit like a brick.

_Oh._

_Wow._

_Ow._

Drop-kick to the chest. _Okay_. This was fine, she could handle this. It was not unlike the painful truth the teen had thrown out, without care or reserve, at the party. Felicity Smoak, IT extraordinaire, was not Oliver Queen’s type. _Got it already_.

But _Oliver_-

“_Hey_.” Glare turned up to what Felicity guessed was roughly 40% of it’s usual power output, and it was focused on his sister; a _slow_, purposeful thing. Not unlike the exorcist. It even looked- “Stop it.”

It looked like he was couldn’t _believe_ her. Like this was part of the stranger he’d met when he’d come back home and didn’t understand where the rudeness had come from. Worse, he looked exactly the way he had done in their last few encounters, when something less than pleasant happened.

Guilty.

As if _he_ were to blame for the way people had changed without him, that he might be at the route of the negativity in the people who’d missed him. Narcissism might be part and parcel with the social elite, but somehow, she didn’t think that _this_ was _that_.

The glare didn’t deter Thea who was clearly immune to the big brother effect. “He has a type.” _A type not you_, could be heard in the pause between sentences. “It’s not of the nerdy variety.” Those unforgiving eyes dropped down Felicity’s clearly unimpressive form and back up again. “Just a warning, you know, in case you get any ideas of staying a while.” _My god_. An unapologetic shrug followed unapologetic words, completing the image of ‘angel is a devil’ and Felicity-

“Funny how ‘no offense’ always seems to precede ‘immense offense meant’.”

-Had heard it all before. All. Of. It. Different words, voices, faces and moments in time. She’d been unimpressive to the world from minute one and had developed a thicker skin. _Still stings_. Mostly it was disappointing: she hadn’t expected Oliver’s family or friends to accept her. She hadn’t expected Oliver to even _want_ to introduce them, not at this point.

But he’d pulled a bullet out of her with his name on it. If one thing could have gone right, it should have been this. She should have been able to pull this one thing off, to make this one area of his life, a little less difficult.

“I call it as I see it.” Speaking of difficult: boldfaced and immature. Not a great combination in a teenager with the kind of money that could get her out of every kind of mess she made for herself.

Usually, anyway.

“So do I.” She just didn’t speak _aloud_ about the things she saw in people. “I see a teenager,” carefully, _careful_, “with very little understanding of how the world truly works.”

To her left, Oliver shifted and in her peripheral the slow crease at his brow was oddly sharp in contrast to the blur of everything else, save his eyes. It was a very real feeling against her arm, the way his muscles slowly taughtened, but he didn’t say a word, which was… _odd_. Where was the death glare, the threat that he probably threw at criminals under a dark hood on long nights, over the length of a long arrow? The man who she knew would never tolerate an attack on his sister, of any kind, act or not.

Or maybe, she just _didn’t_ know him. Not well at all.

“I don’t need _anyone_ here,” and she knew the slight was shot at her brother, “giving me a lecture.”

“Oh, I won’t do that.” Even thinner - _it’s really thin_ \- maybe… maybe he trusted Felicity to have a point. _Huh_. “But you’re in no position to be blowing off help from _anybody_ here.”

“Oh, I think I’m in the _perfect_ position to do my mother some damage.”

_Note to self: never tell a teenager with a goal, what they should do with it._

The snort that left her was irrepressible, because _wait, what?_ “Is _that_ what you’ve been trying to do?” And though her tone wasn’t unkind, it was probably the moment where she should have stopped, where she could have decided that bratty version of herself that Thea Queen was trying to sell here was attempting to either save face or be a vindictive little twerp against her mother for matters that the teen likely didn’t fully comprehend, and simply let her be so. “_That_ was your plan?” But Felicity had never been that person. Oliver was her friend and his sister was… she was in pain. And Thea’s pain was Oliver’s pain. “Get high, jump into your brand-new car, go for a fast drive, no fucks given as to whether you might kill a person-”

“That wouldn’t have happened! I-”

“Vertigo, like most of the drugs I’m sure that you know _nothing_ at all about,” _real talk_, no one ever thinks about the consequences when their first priority is getting that particular high and, let’s face it; there were no novices in this room, “affects vision, motor function and spikes your adrenaline, but,” she raised a finger in point, trying to reach this kid who was all insecurity and vanity with little direction, “this one goes a step further.” And she could feel the precise moment when Oliver clenched, butt-cheeks and all. Not that she knew what _that_ felt like or had thought about it or- _oh_ _who am I kidding?_ His backside in those leather pants flew in and out of her dreams on a nightly basis. “It alters perception, warping the user’s ability to distinguish potentially dangerous situations from the norm, whether it revolves around themselves or others. I’m sure that you gave thought to those symptoms,” she gesturing to the girl with little vehemence, “in your rush to pay it forward to your mother.”

_Please see. Please understand. _

It was surreal - but heartening - to see such a headstrong, absolutely decided girl, still so completely in her seat. See her eyes flicker to her brother’s before flying away. There was shame there, _actual_ thought to the people she might have put in harm’s way with her miscreant behaviour.

_Gotcha_. Thea Queen was a good girl, a reckless girl and beneath the ego, a _hurt _one.

Leaning forwards, the rush of compassion she’d been burying behind the thin venire of ‘legal representative for a dodgy homeless initiative’ that she and Leny had developed on the fly, pouring out of her eyes, her voice, her expression. “There are better ways.”

“You don’t know _anything_.” Thea’s seething go-to line.

“I know women like your mother.”

The smirk on the girl’s face was brittle and ill-composed. Backed into a corner. “Somehow I doubt that you and my mom travel in the same circles.”

“True.” It wasn’t as if she’d ever be truly welcome in the Queen Mansion; she might as well go out guns blazing- _bad choice of words_. “Money, prestige, politics and a financial history tied into the city itself? I can’t claim to know a thing about any of it.” That she was smiling, that it wasn’t a lie and that it was warm because- _why lie about that_, did something to the atmosphere in the room. Made it soften even as it churned. “But I do know that to get to where your mother is, she would have made backup plans for her backup plans.” _Like… I do_. Now, there was a thought. “Chances are for the year or so that you’d be in lockup, getting your blood-red tattoos-”

-because there wasn’t a chance in hell that a spoiled little rich girl like Thea, wouldn’t be targeted and last without scars in prison, but she felt Oliver’s flinch at her blunt honesty and the butterflies that had been tearing away at her stomach for the past two hours, revved up a few notches-

“-your mom will have paid the press to spin a tale about your defective youth, your grief, _her_ hardships, the way she went above_ and beyond_ to help get through to her daughter who is oh _so_ broken by the past that even Mother Teresa would be hard-pressed to heal and guide you, that by the time you’re released, she’ll be heralded as the mother who didn’t quit. She has a company to guide after all; wayward daughters and fortune 500, billion-dollar corporations don’t tend to mix very well.” Fingers curling in, she gave Thea her usual dorky ‘thumbs up’. “_Victory_.”

Pointless. Against a woman like Moira Queen, absolutely pointless.

Every inch of Thea screamed defiance, but there was something there that Felicity couldn’t help but resonate with; she’d been similar once, except replace spoiled and catty with Kohl-eyed Cracker. Replace ‘wanting to get back at mommy’ with ‘less-than passive aggression against every daddy figure who chose money before family and very willing to create digital viral nightmares to attempt at unbalancing the world’s paradoxically one-sided game of **fair’**.

“What do you even know about it?” Sending an incredulous huff at her brother - who Felicity was flat out terrified to look at right now - she shook her head and launched forth. “You come in here and act like you understand this family, a-and- you- _you_-” _I think I broke something._

“I know,” she began slowly, quietly, “that I’m in _zero_ mood to get into a verbal match with a girl,” emphasis on _girl_ as in _little_, “hellbent on proving to the world that she exists, that she matters,” even if it wasn’t truthful, she needed Thea to see how pointless her actions were right now, “that she doesn’t care when that’s _all_ she does. In the end you just another juvenile delinquent. No one will listen. No one will care. You’ll fail.”

“Bite me.”

“No, thank you,” smile, “you take drugs.”

And just as she’d hoped, Thea Queen winced. A glimmer of accountability. This person… Oliver’s kid sister didn’t want to be this person. But she was young enough, impulsive enough, angry enough at everything and everyone that she couldn’t see the damage she was doing to herself. She didn’t _care_. But it was clear that thoughts of hurting anyone but her mother, hadn’t entered her head.

“And _there’s_ the shame.” Felicity breathed, fingers trembling, knowing that she’d officially worn out her welcome; but she was here as Thea’s appointee and damned if Felicity did anything halfway, _sucks to be me_. This was why she kept herself to herself; most people didn’t appreciate the way the truth would tumble from her lips before tact could reign in some of the insensitivity of it, whether she was playing a part or not. She couldn’t blame them. “See, this is what makes no sense to me. You could do anything,” she speedily went on before the teen could explode, before Oliver could stop her, before her nerves could make her voice start to wobble and they would; past experience wasn‘t kind, “to get back at your mother. You could even,” surely not, “_ask_ her about whatever is clearly ruling your hormones right now, instead of jumping to conclusions.”

“I _know_ what I saw.”

_Don’t tell me, don’t tell me, don’t tell me- I know too much already_. “You’re smart enough to know that not everything is as it seems.” Eyeing the girl who was now flat out glaring back, Felicity took a chance. “Then again, you _are_ dragging your name, your _brother’s_ name, through the proverbial mud with this paddy you’re having; but _you_ think it’s the right way to go, so what does anybody else know, right?” Pressing her lips together, she waited for the backchat, for the outburst of ‘no one understands me, not even me’. She waited for Oliver to tell her to back off.

Neither sibling said a word.

_Frack_. Had she gone too far? _I always did play a role to the letter_. Lying on the fly was her Achilles heel but give her time to build a mask and she’d sell it with aplomb. More so because she was protecting someone who’s sister didn’t see him for who he’d become - who may not want to - whose mother didn’t understand him, whose friends made him lonely.

It made her say more.

“Maybe I _don’t_ want you anywhere near the impoverished of this city, who try so hard just to live in it. The fact that you aren’t being charged with reckless endangerment is stunning. You very literally could have killed someone and then you wouldn’t be sitting _here_, you’d already be charged with manslaughter and there’d be no _out _for you after taking a life, no left door to take instead of the right one.” It hit her that this was why Oliver had remained silent. Given what she’d uncovered about him, he was intimately acquainted with the accidental and purposeful taking of lives. “How could someone who does that ever think maturely enough, compassionately enough, to help the neglected and the disenfranchised; even within community service?” Head shaking, Felicity didn’t look at Thea as if she were a great disappointment; she looked at her in plea. _Please just try, just once, to see past how you feel. See your brother. See other people, see a way beyond shallow retaliation, see anything but what hurt you on your birthday._ “I mean, you actually think this is the way to go to get a sweet bit of revenge on a woman whose secrets are none of your business.”

She’d uttered the magic words.

“You don’t know anything about it!” Fingers digging into the cushion beneath her butt, the wound that Felicity intuitively gathered had been growing since she’d been told that the men in her life weren’t coming home, finally came through Thea’s eyes. “You have no _idea_ what she did or what it’s like to live with her, when she-”

Lifting a hand - _If I shake any harder, I’ll come out of my skin_ \- a stop sign, it took everything she had inside of her to say-

“I don’t care.” _Oh_, she did, so much, but- _image_. “I’m not here to counsel you,” because this wasn’t just about something Thea had seen. There was resentment there, something older than a few days, something bitter and twisted and sad. _Later_. They could talk later. “I was hoping, honestly,” and though she probably just looked tired, Felicity aimed for professional, “that you’d know the difference between seeking the truth and throwing a tantrum, because if you can’t deduce _that_,” standing, heart racing, she slung the bag containing the paperwork request for temporary appointee-ship for the agreed body (_me_) acting in loco-parentis over her good shoulder, “if you can’t see the life-lines being handed to you when they wouldn’t be to the people _I’m_ trying to help,” people who are called trash for having no money, “because there are people who love you enough to try,” and she didn’t need to gesture to Oliver; Thea knew exactly who she meant, “then I don’t want you anywhere near Leny Carter.”

And with that, she stepped around the couch - and the eerily silent, straight-backed brother - ignoring the slack jaw of the teenager watching her and walked out of the room.

With how warm her neck and cheeks felt, she might as well have walked out of a blaze.

_Gonna throw up. _And she was _almost_ proud of herself for not running, but that didn’t stop her from jumping near out of the skin when, just as she’d reached the hall way leading to the front doors - _freedom_ \- a firm grasp, a strong hand, took her by the arm, halting her in her tracks.

“_Squeak_.” Hand on her heart, she twisted ack to gape at Oliver. “Don’t _do_ that.” Not here, in the place where his mother had taken her out with a blow to the side of her head. But mostly, not _anywhere_. Ever.

Maybe he understood that, because the way he didn’t _really_ move so much as tower over her - taking in with a single flicker the expanse of her widening eyes and the rapid rate of the pulse in her neck - and the way his hand slid down her arm, towards her wrist rather than off altogether, the way he didn’t speak for several seconds, was a little startling.

As if he was giving her a minute.

But he was so much taller, so much broader - so much more direct and thoughtful - than anyone else she’d ever met, so when he gradually began to lean _over_ and _in_, until his face was inches from her own, the quiet gravity in eyes made her feel like the weight of an ocean was bearing down on her, instead of what his eyes usually made her think of.

The sky.

“What,” it was so slow, his tone so low that something dropped from her stomach to her- _ahem_, “are you _doing_?”

It was always thrilling, hearing his voice destroy obstacles and make innocuous questions sound like carnal filth. “I-” She pointed behind her. “I’m leaving?”

Gravity must having been playing tricks on her because the Oliver of a week ago wouldn’t have gotten _this_ close to her face. “What happened in there?”

“Well, I-”

“Felicity.” Like her name was a trigger, the hand on her wrist pulled her in, making her stumble into the oddly familiar security of him. “I _thought_ that you were going to try to make her _want_ to do this, not make her feel-”

Hand flying upwards, she wasn’t _near_ skilled enough to shush a vigilante at that speed, not without her fingertips brushing his lips…

So that’s exactly what they did. “_Ssssh_!”

And why did it matter that they did? It _felt_ like it mattered. Like it meant something that someone like Oliver would react in any positive to her touch, especially after _everything_. The way he stilled, the way he just… stopped. The calmness of it, just liquid blue, and shock.

But it was the clip-clop of heels on the feet of one stubborn Queen sibling that had made her do so - it matched each of Oliver’s surprised blinks - and in the second it took Felicity’s hand to vanish from the _unthinkable_ ideas that her brain supplied at the sight of her hand on him, Miss Queen stormed out from around the corner.

She took one look at them - at the hold Oliver hand on her wrist, the firm set to his mouth, the unyielding expression on his face - and her eyes narrowed, but it wasn’t the sight. It wasn’t her brother’s persistence. It was Felicity. Felicity and her slight on Thea’s supposed character.

_Gulp_. That’s what she got for getting involved in family affairs that were _so_ not her business.

Verbally hitting Thea’s intellectual vanity with a morality check? Add a protective older brother into the mix and the problem was nearly fixed for her.

“I’ll do it.” It was like a declaration of war. It was _perfect_. “I’m taking the deal.”

_THANK. GOD._

A pin could have been heard hitting the floor. Oliver couldn’t look more dumbfounded. Felicity wanted to dance the happy dance of ages.

Thea was already _leaving_-

“Look, I know you wanted to talk Ollie, but,” _oh the ever-ubiquitous caveat_, “I need to be alone. Figure out what I’m going to say to mom when she gets home.” Storming _past_ them to the stairs, Felicity had to school her expression into something that wasn’t close to manic-rabbit-delight. _It worked!_ “I’ll sign the papers in front of her or something, see if I can get her to feel an actual emotion.” _Ouch_. “Leave them on the side-table.”

She had a hard time not performing a salute and agreed with her inner Yoda, _a rude awakening with Leny, will this one have_. Placing the file on the tiny table to the left of the stairs, _quietly_, she tried to draw as little attention to herself as possible as Oliver followed his sister with her eyes.

“Thea-” Whatever he was trying to say, it looked _hard_ to voice. “Thank You.”

Pausing a level above him, there was something so cautious about the look on Thea’s face that Felicity felt it pull at her diaphragm. _These two…_

“Are you ok?” _Oh_, but to have a sibling who cared for her as much as the unmitigated feeling in Oliver’s voice.

A shrug was his sister’s response. How teen of her.

“You won’t regret this.” He continued, quietly determined.

“Yeah, sure.” Despite the nonchalance, reluctant appreciation of Oliver’s clear concern for her welfare - his happiness at her decision to give a damn herself - lit up her whole face. Of course. Of _course_, Oliver was the cure. “I’ll do this for you, Ollie,” and she didn’t sound half-so aggrieved as she was trying to, muttering as she continued on down the landing, “but I don’t have to like it.”

That’s life. _It’s unfair, but how you deal with it? Well, that can get you points. Sometimes._

A door clicking shut somewhere above them was the equivalent to a starters pistol.

Jumping up and down on her tip toes, Felicity bounced with each _boing_ of her heart. Grinning like a lunatic - the pull on her shoulder insignificant now - the pads of her feet tapped light and fast against the floor and her body leant forwards with a little hip swivel - a booty shake - that would later make her squirm in mortification; but really, she had no control over it.

“_That was great!_” Whipping about she snatched the file off the side table, only to turn and blindly whack, whack, _whack_ against the fantastic broadness that was Oliver’s pectorals; whispering-squealing the words in something like thrilled, ultra-hyped, triumph. “That. Was. So. Great!”

It had been worth it, all of it.

A solitary sound made her stop mid-hop, make her blink rapidly and straighten her glasses, peering up…

_Oh_.

Now _that_ was a smile.

Not forced, fake or harsh; not something difficult to take or respond to. It was all parted lips, white teeth, a slight crinkling at the corner of each eye as his cheeks round out, as his eyes light up, as he gazed down at her with a mixture of surprise - always surprise - shared happiness and wonder that made him, impossibly, more attractive than ever before.

The sound she’d heard? His short lived but real, breathy laugh.

Suddenly she was back to that day before the badness. Back to secrets but no lies and _flirty flirt_ with the promise of wine.

There was a dim echo of her own glee in his murmur. “It worked.”

“Yes, it did.” And she couldn’t help the proud, if slightly coy, way her smile grew. “You did it.”

“No.” One head shake. “This was all you. You were very convincing.”

_Oops_. Tentative, her smile turned shaky. “I was a little worried that you’d…”

“That I’d?”

She swallowed, _say it_. “Hate me for it.”

For this. For his mother. For… well, for everything he hadn’t wanted to hear, that no one should ever have to hear.

For once, she gave the lump in her chest voice; feeling like a lone buoy in the middle of a restless waves, _and I am aware of the horrible irony being alone at sea has when talking to Oliver_-

“Hey.” With an attentive softness that was devoid of hurt or emotional injury, the kind of which she hadn’t witnessed in him before, he took a step towards her and back into her personal space; seemingly unbothered that the invasion was giving her admittance to encroach onto his ‘territory’ in return. “I… can’t.”

It sounded like some magnificent confession, but- “Huh?”

“I can’t hate you.” The vehemence was new. “It’s a guarantee.” The hushed quality to it was extra- special nice. “I can’t hate you.”

“…Oh.” _That’s nice._

“I’m grateful.” His eyes _shone_ with it. “That I met you. That you’re _here_. That you were brave enough to… to walk in here and help my sister.” The short sentences, the pause between each, the way his chest moved slowly, the stops and starts; they were telling of an Oliver Queen who was _trying_. Who wasn’t particularly good with words but who wanted to be better. “You…” he shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

He was _talking_ to her.

“It-” heart in her throat, she cleared it. “It was nothing. I was just,” and it was cheesy how she tapped his arm, how he deliberately moved with the gesture, “helping my friend.” _I was helping you_.

“It’s incredible.” He corrected, suddenly more serious. “I’m very lucky.” Another headshake, this time accompanied by an intake of breath that made him sound oddly… taken. “Thank you.”

But she must have been hearing things.

A tremulous smile was beyond her control to keep at bay. “You’re welcome.”

_Yay._

Though he wasn’t smiling anymore, the weight of it - or lack thereof - didn’t dissipate from his eyes. “That’s one thing down.”

_And only a billion more things to go, but yes_. It felt good. “What’s next on the agenda?”

“Next,” and as usual whenever he was close, her heart performed its own staccato mamba when his very careful fingers tapped on her shoulders, indicating that she _turn_\- “you go home. You sleep.” Palms replacing his fingers - and it was stunning, the ease at which he did it; for a man returned from a 5 year stint in hell, it was a big thing, _the biggest_ \- he nudged her on. “Rest.”

But the double standard had her looking at him over her shoulder. “And you?” Eyes flitting upstairs, her voice dropped to a light whisper, complete with hand signals. “Will _you_ be sleeping and resting off the _Vertigo_ you were dosed with?”

“I…” And maybe a sarcastic anecdote or another playful lie would have accompanied the not-quite-there-smile on his face.

If his eyes hadn’t fluttered closed as he toppled - like a small building - down to the floor.

It took everything in her not to cry out in alarm. “_Frack_.” Already on her knees next to his, her trembling fingers felt for a pulse at his throat. _Fast_. Too fast. And his eyes were moving under his lids. _Vertigo isn’t out of his system yet_, she thought as she looked him over; silently freaking out but not willing to bring this to the attention of his sister. She knew Oliver wouldn’t approve.

Then the next best option came into view from the other side of the stairs.

“John!” She hissed, flapping a hand at him, hoping he knew how to speak fluent _freak-out_.

Turns out, he did.

“What happened?” Voice an undertone - sneaky secret keeper - he crouched his hulking form down on the other side of his charge, checking for vitals, looking about as menacing as a bear protecting its family.

So, pretty menacing.

“He collapsed.” _Obviously_, no amount of eye rolls at herself were enough. “But there were no signs!” And she couldn’t help the panic in her voice. “He doesn’t look pale; his pupils aren’t dilated, and his temperature isn’t up.”

“It must come and go in waves.” Hand tapping the side of Oliver’s face, he muttered. “Come on, man.”

A slight furrow creased the otherwise gentle serenity that unconsciousness had made possible on Oliver’s face and she wondered briefly, as Diggle lifted an arm over his shoulders, helping him off the floor, if he always looked so peaceful sleeping.

“There we go.” Standing, John steadied Oliver before he could sway forwards and back into Felicity again. “_No_-”

“He needs water.” She said, a hand on Oliver’s chest - taking advantage of his lack of cognizance, surely - as she watched the man rub at his eyes, his hand pressing against his forehead. “And sleep.”

Immediately the man in question shook his head and- _typical_. Of _course_, that was what he tuned into and if Diggle’s sigh and deadpan look was any indication, this was Oliver Queen unmasked on any day of the week ending in Y.

And she was getting a front row seat. Trust.

Maybe that was why she could slide her own shoulder under his other arm in an offer. “Okay.” She spoke gently. “But, water?” She blinked up at him. “Please?”

And it was like he didn’t get asked things often enough or maybe it was the lack of anything resembling irritation at his stubborn-headedness - she knew that sleep held monsters in the dark for him - but after a moment of bleary eyes peering down into her face from under a mulish brow, he nodded, allowing her and John to tug him towards the kitchen.

Suffice it to say, she felt every one of the worked-over muscles in his back work as they moved. Every single one.

* * *

The file hit his desk before the words are out. “Explain this one to me.”

He knows his own reputation, that most people think he’s a hard ass and more than a step or two behind the times. The old fashioned kind of Detective, preferring his eyes, ears and touch to computers and a prediction engine that he thinks might replace men like him in a couple of decades - the spectre of a time long gone - but he doesn’t care. He’s never cared how people see him.

And right now, his daughter was throwing him a look all too familiar on her face and yet also, brand new.

Still, he doesn’t care. “Explain what?”

“Explain how _you_,” with her index finger, Laurel prodded at the file before flipping it open. “my father,” she stated, frankly, “signed off on a plan of rehabilitation for Thea Queen of all people.” Exhaling, she settled for aiming a more confused than curious look his way. “And all without any encouragement.”

Frowning, his lips twisted. “Who says I didn’t?”

“_Dad_.”

Baffled, Quentin Lance glanced down at the file and then back up his daughter. “What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big-” Cutting herself off, he watched her reign in whatever emotion made her lips purse and jaw clench. “How did you get the Judge to sign off on it?”

He’d used up his one and only favour with the guy, _god help me_. “I’ll have you know that your old man can be pretty damn persuasive when he wants to be.”

And he turned back to the work on his desk, looking morosely at his empty coffee cup; knowing that he’d had more than enough for one day but silently planning on sneaking another.

The shadow over his desk didn’t move.

_Huh. _This didn’t usually happen. She’d make her point and then leave, that was her – _their_ – routine and sometimes it would reverse, because she was just as stubborn as he could be.

She never hovered over his desk, looking lost.

“What?” Leaning back, pushing out his chair, he grunted. “You look-”

“Like the world just turned on its head?”

He snorted. “For a start.”

“Dad,” pausing to set down her bag, his daughter perched on the end of his desk; her long brown hair spilling over her shoulder and looking so much like her mother that his chest squeezed. _God damn_. Dinah. One of his bigger regrets.

Then she looked him in the eye, expression softening into something he hadn’t seen in a long, long while. Vulnerability. Uncertainty. And a new one, disquiet. “Did you…” Pausing, she searched his face for clues. “Dad, did you do this for me?”

He blinked. Hard. “Did I do what for you?”

“Did you help Thea because of my history with Oliver?”

He stared at her. _Son of a bitch_, seriously?

He allowed himself a moment to do the same, to take her in and see his daughter sitting there instead of the lawyer she liked to play at being.

…She looked good. Healthy, _not_ over-worked or stressed, which - if he was a selfish type of bastard -_might_ have been a blessing; a reason to not come and visit her father more, but the thought left him as quickly as it began. He’d burned his own share of bridges in the past and one of those were the repeat trips his daughter had taken in the middle of the night, to come pick up her father from whichever crappy bar he’d chosen to drown his sorrows and quieten his demons in.

The same daughter who’d had to learn that her boyfriend was a lying, cheating scumbag on the same day that she lost her sister to that very same scumbag.

The same daughter sitting there, ghosts of her own echoing in her voice and a sentiment he’d hoped to god was all but dead to her swimming in her eyes.

It was clear. She was being serious.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Tone flat, he scowled up at his daughter who was starting to close shop on her old man. But not fast enough. “You still have feelings for him, don’t you?”

Not near fast enough, her eyes flickered down and to the side, hesitating a second in answer. “No-” She exhaled, and he wanted to scream; the good feelings her visit had brought, long gone. “This isn’t about that.” _God, she does_. And she was trying really hard to look unaffected too, he knew the signs. The way she looked like a teenager every single time she tried to deny the truth. Five years weren’t worth a damn; it was always Oliver _fucking_ Queen. “This is about you.”

Years of hell and she still- “Let’s pretend that I agree. Why is this about me?”

“You helped the Queen family. Teenager or not, I’ve heard enough of your rants to know that you’d never willingly do anything remotely magnanimous for them.”

He squinted at her, tone on the short side of derisive for them both. “You don’t think very highly of me, do you?”

She arched a brow at him, straight-faced.

_Right_. That was a long road for a bus not coming, there was no point denying that she had every reason to look at him that way. Not that he’d admit it or anything.

Taking a deep breath, he cut to the chase. “Let’s just say that someone surprised me and I’m not an easy man to surprise.”

To put it mildly.

But he had an odd feeling that Felicity Smoak spent a lot of her days making other people feel like they’d missed a thing or two. Poking holes in a shaky justice system notwithstanding, she’d been the first person he’d spoken to in a long time who seemed to truly give a rat’s ass about the people in the city. Rich or poor. Young or old. Unconditional compassion… it was rare. Rarer still to find it in a woman that young and that-

Light.

Most social workers and community champions looked exactly what they were; overworked and pushed to the limit, but she’d been a surreal streak of colour and sincerity that had made him pause. Seeing Leny Carter’s name attached to her cause had cinched the deal.

“Who was it?”

“It doesn’t matter. They were more than a little convincing.” Clearing his throat, his voice was gruff. “Won’t happen again.”

If he didn’t see her again.

He heard Laurel shift before looking at her again, seeing her straighten half-sat on his desk. “I don’t like it.”

“What’s there to like?” He shrugged, displeased with himself and yet without regret. “Your dad caved.”

“That’s not what I mean.” But she didn’t explain any further, which… was exactly what he’d expected. “Who’s acting in loco parentis?”

“The same woman who made the offer.”

“Woman?”

Eyes narrowing, his head dipped. “Why do you care?”

“I-” mouth opening and closing, it was a rare sight to see his daughter flounder. “I don’t.”

“Could have fooled me.” He muttered, moving some of his papers.

Again, he waited for the inevitable response and low and behold, after a few seconds, he heard her irritated sigh.

“It’s Thea.”

“A girl you never spoke to, even when you and her dirt-bag brother were tied at the hip.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

And for some reason he allowed himself a bitter laugh, knowing he would hurt his only daughter. “I’m sure that’ll mean the world to her.” A deviant daughter of a messed-up family who he knew Laurel hadn’t spoken a word to in years. “Knowing that you care, but _only_ from far away because what happened five years ago made you just as bitter and regretful as I am and you can’t admit that you still have feelings for the guy you claimed to hate before he returned from the dead,” _I wish he’d stayed that way_, “even as you date his best friend.”

He knew the _real_ reason she suddenly cared about Thea Queen’s behaviour.

Oliver Queen… he couldn’t admit that his resentment was almost completely forced now. There was something different about the guy, something that Quentin didn’t understand. Or pretended not to. Five years, alone on an island? It would be enough to put any other guy in a straitjacket, but the Queen’s eldest? He throws a party. Wears a suit. Smiles the kind of smile that made the hair on Quentin’s arms rise. _Eerie_.

He hadn’t paid attention. No one had.

_It doesn’t change the past_. Holding onto it didn’t change it either, so he didn’t look too deeply. But unresolved history didn’t give him the right to attack her with it or decide what her feelings were/are when he hadn’t even asked about them. Not that she’d answer. They were too alike, only knowing how to lash out at each other instead of comfort; too raw to do anything else. The ones you loved hurt you the most_, boy don’t they just_.

At the look on her face, he wished he could take it back. The way her eyes dropped, and chin dipped: the metaphorical slap. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

And the anger.

“Laurel-”

“No, you know what dad?” _I’ve blown it_, straight to hell by the hate in her voice, however short-lived it might be. His girl could hold a grudge. “I’m done here.”

Shoulders pressing against the back of his chair, he ended up saying. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

_No, you don’t_, he thought with regret as he watched her storm away, righteously this time. _And you never do_.

Their relationship in a nutshell.

* * *

The knock on the door was unexpected. The face _behind_ it, even more so.

“Ah…” mouth open, she was sure she looked like a goldfish without the bowl.

Oliver hadn’t had enough of her for one day?

“Hi.” And there was something oddly sweet about the raspy word, or the unassuming way he stood there, eyes devoid of anything remotely resembling a lie. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” At least there was no abrupt, _you need a peephole_, this time. Just a quiet, _hi_\- “The lock looks better.” He murmured with eyes very much on her. All smiley. Gentle. _Hopeful_.

_Gulp_. Hopeful Oliver, _lord give me strength_. The man made her feel things, _it absolutely isn’t fair-_

“Right. Yes.” The same man waiting patiently for her to respond with actual words. “Dig.” _That’s not an answer_. “Um.” _Neither is that._ A hand against the door frame, it took her a minute to think of actual words this time: for a guy who nearly overdosed on Vertigo - who’d fainted on her earlier today - he looked illegally attractive. “Dig installed new locks for me, and,” her finger flicked over her head, “a camera.” That she had complete control over, the feed leading back to the Foundry.

“Yeah.” And there was that barely-there voice again. “Yeah, I asked him to.”

That stopped her. Firmly. “…Oh.”

“May I come in?”

She wanted to hug him. He looked huggable.

In lieu of a verbal response - since she was having so much trouble with words - she tip-toed back, allowing him entry, watching as he took hesitant steps into her home; head ducked - humble -shoulders a little slack…

_“I like your home.” _

It wasn’t like before; there was no shy exploration, he’d already seen it all, and when she closed the door, he was waiting for her to lead the way.

She cleared her throat - intense - but her voice still trembled just slightly at the memory of the promise wine and the hope that came with it. “Do you want anything?”

If he actually asked for wine, she’d spontaneously combust-

“Nothing, thank you.”

_Ah_. A quick thing then. That was never a good sign-

“The last time I was here,” and he wasn’t letting her thoughts get carried away, wasn’t letting them fall down a pit called self-pity, “my behaviour was…” licking his lips, he brought himself closer so that he was stood beside the partial wall separating her living area from her kitchen. “It was intolerable.”

“Come on,” disagreement laced her voiced, fingers nudging her fringe from her forehead, “it wasn’t that bad.”

“And after,” he continued as if she hadn’t said a word, “I… I hoped that you would want to…” And finally, he made eye contact. “That you’d want to know me, that you’d want to be part of my mission, despite knowing that I…”

“Shoot arrows at people?” She offered, unhelpfully.

Or maybe _helpfully_ because he nodded. “I haven’t been a very good friend.” The _to you_ was implied. “I haven’t treated you with the care and respect that you deserve.”

_Whoa._ “Okay, that’s not- not true, I…” she drew herself closer; watching him shift, look down and nurse his index finger against his thumb. “Oliver, what are you talking about?” He’d done nothing but treat her with respect and care. _I mean, sure; he’s been distant_, but with the reason why, she could give him that time. Besides, how much of himself did he think he had to give? “With everything that you have to deal with, I-”

“See, this is what I mean.” He whispered, gesturing to her, eyes fathomless; a pool reflecting the dying embers of a wan sunset. “Your first thought- it isn’t that you were kidnapped. It isn’t that you were hurt. Or that you were shot.” A pause between sentences made the next words sound like it had been punched out of him. “By my _mother_.” The genuine misery that the truth inspired took his breath away, introducing something more guttural to his voice. He was standing tall, speaking without faltering; but behind the skin of his eyes, he was very aware of the _problem_. “You must have been so scared. And alone. But all you did was ask if _I_ was okay.”

And he gave her this _smile_: a broken thing, so exquisitely sad and fond - as if he thought she was adorably clueless - but curious still as to why.

“Um,” rather than remember the craptacular quality of that night - or the resounding truth to his words, that yes, she really did care that much about him - she felt her cheeks pinken, “I wasn’t _that_\- okay, I was really scared. I almost _barfed_ at one point,” the words just tumbling out at this point, “and finding the time to get those wrist ties over my feet almost gave me a panic attack!” Diffuse with humour, with honest self-deprecation, with raw smiles and nervous laughter.

Word to the wise? Do not do this in front of Oliver Queen.

Addendum: do not do this in front of Oliver Queen if he cares about you.

“It’s not funny.” He bit out. “You… you didn’t tell me that.”

“It’s fine. _I’m_ fine!” Complete with a wave of her hand, like a magic wand. “Totally fine. You came for me, remember?”

And he did, he remembered. “I remember.” He whispered. “But if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have found you in time and that… that is unthinkable.”

“So, we helped each other.” In a coy way, a way she’d tried not being with him, her chin tried to hide itself in her shoulder. “We make a good team.”

He took a moment before responding. “Maybe.” Then cleared his throat. “I’ve been avoiding talking to my mother.” The words kick-started a beat in her chest that she’d managed to sweep aside only hours ago. “I haven’t been back to the mansion since that night.” The mansion. Had he always spoken about his home that way? Like it… wasn’t? “I couldn’t face her.”

“That’s understandable.” More than.

“She shot you.” He repeated, as if he thought she needed to hear it again. “And I avoided her.”

“Oliver, what would you even say to her?”

“I-” A burst of air from his lips stopped his words. “God, I don’t know. She isn’t who I thought she was.”

Irony. “Pot.” She threw a thumb behind her at the closed door and the Moira Queens of this world beyond it. “Kettle.” She pointed at him.

A look of inquisitive, endearing confusion brought to mind a puppy in the street who she hadn’t been able to resist petting lately. _Ahem_.

Letting out her own puff of air, she felt her arms go around herself. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Even with the truth, because so many others seem to, and she’d revealed a lot of truth lately.

The lack of caveat only seemed to interest him. “I think I need to hear it.”

He definitely _looked_ like he meant it, and if she started deciding what he could and couldn’t take, she’d be doing him a disservice. “You’re not who she thinks you are.” _Not even close_, and to his credit, his eyes only briefly flickered away. “The secrets in your family weren’t supposed to be so grave, I think.” He came home, looking to fix mistakes and right wrongs by quieting one percenter’s who thought money and privileged made them untouchable and everyone else collateral damage, and maybe it wasn’t enough. “Five years is a long time.”

“It is.”

“The kind of time that might make an ex-playboy patrol around my house at night in green leather.”

Startled, he stilled.

_There is no plan_. None whatsoever, she shouldn’t be allowed out when he was near. He made her _talk_, made her brave with her words despite the inevitable mortification, made her realise… it was worth it.

With him, it was worth it.

But she wanted to know why he was taking the time to watch over her when he could barely speak two words to her whilst looking her in the eye until the day before.

“You don’t need to answer that.” She eventually decided: the question was more telling about her than his reasons and she figured it was important that his chest inflate with air soon because it looked like he’d stopped breathing. She hadn’t meant to make him self-conscious or worse, guilty. “I- I don’t know why I said that.”

“Did I… I made you uncomfortable.” It wasn’t even a question.

“Nope.” Quick, too quick.

_Conceit, that’s what it is_. A smaller voice inside told her it was hope. The merest whisper said it was something else entirely-

“I couldn’t sleep.” The whisper made her look at him, made her thoughts quiet. “I couldn’t think about… about any of it. I didn’t know where to start or how to… accept it. The only thing I could do was make sure you were safe.”

They were both being so soft with each other. “Safe from what?”

“There was a man that night, I knocked him unconscious beside his car.” He said it so frankly, casually. “His car had your shoes in it.”

_Richard Clyde. _

Her lips parted… but more than that felt a little beyond her just then.

But he was watching her. “You know who I’m talking about.”

It wasn’t a question.

Hands coming up, fingers fidgeting together until the sleeves of her long-sleeved shirt felt over them.

He read her silence, the look in her eyes, the way she wasn’t… ready.

She’d been tortured, she could think it. She’d been tortured by a man she’d have rather painted as a monster because at least then she’d have understood his reason of ‘a favour for a friend’.

“I won’t let him hurt you again.”

“I know.” She whispered back.

“Will you…” he started, throat moving, voice low enough to add to the throb at the base of her spine. “Will you tell me what he did?”

“I already told you.”

Eyes on her, it made her recall those first few visits from him, where his expression had been a bland mask. There was something deeply vulnerable about this drop in façade and it occurred to her that he was being real. He’d made the choice to be so.

Since day one, he’d been testing her. Then after that first time, after visiting her home and asking her to lunch later on, she’d seen snapshots of the Oliver Queen he tried to bury; the him that even he hadn’t given the time of day to explore.

He hadn’t the time. Wouldn’t allow himself the luxury. And yet-

“Everything?”

His concern revolved around everyone but himself.

It didn’t stop the stone from dropping into her stomach. “Maybe we are a little alike after all.” It wasn’t a deflection; she’d told him everything, but… it was difficult for her. As was the smile she tried to keep tacked to her mouth.

And failed.

As was the way a muscle in Oliver’s jaw fluttered, as if he’d felt something that he didn’t want to feel. “I don’t want you to be like me.”

Head tilting, she measured him with a bemused half-smile. “What’s so bad about you?”

Lashes fluttering, mouth opening, he-

He hesitated.

Then his gaze dropped, along with his shoulders; that usual hard set to his brow had loosened, he was… she had no idea what he was.

“You’ve been watching over my house,” _me_, she attempted to explain something she wasn’t sure she understood, just so that he’d stop looking like that - like pieces of him had been hacked off over the years and she’d inadvertently revealed the jagged mess of him - so sure that he was a stain instead of a blessing, “and I haven’t thanked you for that yet.”

A look of such sheer self-disgust startled her - like he was just so done with himself - and made him tilt away, made his brows taper and his eyes see things that she couldn’t. “It was the bare minimum.”

“It was nice.” She whispered, brows lifting, meaning it.

And he looked like he thought her words, his words, were despicable. “I could have done more.”

“You _could_ have been sleeping.”

His eyes shut tight. “_Felicity_.”

That was a first too. Not the way he tried and tested each letter, but the way he could now use her name as an explanation; a new layer meaning behind it that wasn’t simply ‘happiness’.

“That’s my name.” Crappy joke aside, since she was too grateful to verbalise it in words, why _not_ make him see it on her face?

But he couldn’t because he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

“It made me feel safer, Oliver.” She tried. “And I _don’t_ think,” she said clearly, carefully, “that I’m the only person you’ve made safe since you came back home.”

And the truth shall set you free.

Lips pressing together, she waited. It wasn’t everyday a vigilante decided you were worth the time, the energy and patience to protect when he had other people he had to watch out for. It was humbling. It was really, _really_ humbling.

And she had a feeling that he had no idea.

But maybe she’d given him a clue because after the initial massive rise and fall of his chest - like he’d taken in a larger than normal breath - he opened his eyes, eyes on the floor. “I have many wrongs that I have to right. I didn’t think I’d add to them. Though,” a bitter sound left him; part laugh, part release of air, “I’m not surprised.”

“Oliver,” walking closer wasn’t the plan - the closer she got to him, the more difficult it became to form coherent sentences not dripping in inuendo - but he also made it impossible for her to remain unaffected by the loneliness soaked into every other word, “it wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“No, but I _do_ know that whatever you’re trying to do now has nothing to do with _your_ particular wrongs.” She frowned at her own choice of words and found him frowning with her. _Oops_. “My point is- Oliver, I haven’t wanted to make a move on this,” this being his mother and whoever, _whatever_ had turned her into a criminal, “until you were ready. If that means waiting another month, then,” she shrugged, shoulder twinge be damned, “that’s how long it will take.”

With slow breaths, his eyes met hers and remained. “You were hurt.” It felt like such a small thing, but the way he said it made it sound monumental. “Hurt and scared and it was my _mother_ who did that to you.” Dark gaze, dark eyes, but his voice echoed a pain far deeper. “I have tried to find some reason for why- _how_ she could…” he stopped, his expression pleading with her to make it better even as he thought that she was the wronged one and not him. “How could she do that to you? To anyone. I…” Desperate eyes couldn’t reconcile the woman who’d given birth to him with the woman he’d had to see that night. “I don’t understand.”

“People change.” It was feeble but true. “But you don’t know her story.” Just as Moira Queen didn’t know her son’s. “There could a perfectly,” dastardly, nightmarish, “reasonable explanation for why-”

“There is no explanation.” With the immediate answer, some of the anguish faded from his face, replaced with a determination that was oddly… _squishy_. Metaphorically. Blue turned to violet as the sun set and for some reason the effect made him look like he needed to be touched, despite the granite jaw and rigidity that she had come to associate with blood and arrows. “I didn’t want to see the truth of her, and because of that…” his chest depressed. “I failed you. I failed, Felicity. But I _promise_ you.” It was unexpectedly fierce, and she tried not to gape at the way emotion melted into the aggressive contours of his face or the vehemence in his voice. “I promise that it will _not_ happen again.”

Pulse in her ears, she tried, hard to reduce the squeak in her voice, but her throat closed midway through anyway. “Oliver, you don’t have to say that-”

“It will not happen again.” He repeated. “Okay?”

Breathe in, breathe out. “Okay.”

_Okay_, he mouthed, point well and truly made.

They stood there in silence for a while and it was peculiarly without any kind of awkwardness.

Then she cleared her throat. “Oliver-”

“No.”

“_Oliver_, there are more important things out there than me.” She got out before he could stop her.

“Maybe.” Nodding once - conceding? - he seemed to mull it over in his head. “There might be, but I will no longer put first my own… reluctance,” _ahem, fears_, “at the price of your peace of mind. Your safety.”

Another kind of vow, and he meant this one; she could tell.

“What can I do to help?” It was all she could think to say, all she wanted to say, because she was all in.

He just stared at her.

“Um, Oliver?”

Rapid blinking followed a peculiar, not-so-subtle jerk of the head. “Right. I was…”

“You were…?”

“Thanking you. I was thanking you.”

_Don’t smile, don’t smile, don’t be lame_. “Not that you need to thank me but, are you sure?” _Too late_.

Another infamous breathy thing, approximately both a laugh and a quite possibly a sob, left him as his head reached the back of his neck. “Looks like I didn’t do it right.”

** _You looked like you needed to be kissed._ **

A muscle in her stomach spasmed. _What the frack?_

“I _mean-_” Neck twitching, his eyes closed so tightly - unseeing of the way she’d frozen - that her own widened further. “Uh.”

“Usually,” she fidgeted, “it’s me who talks in sentence fragments.” _Seriously, what was that?_

But he smiled. Opened his eyes. Dropped his hand. Looked at her side-on with all the might of his Mesmer stare. “Thank you.”

Hands beneath her chin, she whispered back. “You’re welcome.”

A new start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's safe to say I've missed this and you. Can't wait to hear what you think if you have the time. I hope this year has been kind to you in some way.

**Author's Note:**

> REVIEWS ARE MY LIFE BLOOD - PLEASE FEED THIS POOR WORKING WOMAN  
part 2 won't take long


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